


borrow mine 'til yours can open, too

by toastweasel



Series: Superhero AU (Ghostbusters 2016) [1]
Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Holtzbert - Freeform, also filed under HOLTZMANN HAS MAXIMUM RIDE WINGS and i am not sorry, also there is angst. there is so much angst., but it ends happily because im not a monster, if top secret lab experiment turned nyc vigilante is your jam you have come to the right fic, slowburn, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-18 15:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 61,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8166334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toastweasel/pseuds/toastweasel
Summary: Jillian Holtzmann is just another name in a long line of aliases for Experiment S#26435, codename Icarus, the experimental pride and joy of Dr. Rebecca Gorin, an experimental biological engineer at a top secret chimera laboratory in the middle of the Nevada desert. Icarus was able to escape The Sanctuary and moved on with her life, establishing the superhero identity Lucifer in order to save lives in New York City. But what happens when a rich millionaire decides to expose Lucifer and the Sanctuary that created her? Unexpected love, new friends, a race against time, and chaos. Complete and utter chaos. Holtzbert. Angst. Fluff. Happy endings (but I'm going to make you work for it).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got the image of Holtzmann with wings one day about three weeks ago and this just sort of....happened. Enjoy!

Erin knew she should not have let Patty talk her into going to Coney Island. They had had fun, to be sure, and all in all their trip was a success, but her return on the N was less than pleasant. First of all, the train was crowded, and she was not looking forward to the long ride back into the city. She had finally gotten settled in her seat with her new copy of Quantum Monthly when the train derailed.

Erin had never been someone who had wanted to fly; she had never liked roller coasters, never wanted to bungee jump, and was not fond of bridges. She liked her feet planted solidly on the ground. She always looked firmly at her lap when the train came out on the overhead tracks. So she was quite determined on her article indeed when the lead car came off the rails on the elevated track by the Queensboro Bridge. Erin barely had time to register the fact that her stomach had risen into her throat, or appreciate the physics behind her sudden descent before they crashed into the ground.

There was pain, there was mangled metal, broken glass, sparks, and then, after a brief silence, screams. Erin knew none of this--she was rendered instantly unconscious on impact. 

-/-

Holtzmann had been running through Queensbridge Park when she heard the crash. She did not even think about her safety, the risk to her identity, her job, anything. She stopped on a dime, her wings pushed through the carefully tailored slits in her t-shirt, and she took to the sky. It did not take her long to find the source of the thunderous noise that had brought her run to its grinding halt.

She was one of the first responders. She dropped down two blocks away and ran for the crash, shaking out her shirt to carefully hide her wings again as she went. Her hands scrambled for her phone in its sleeve on her arm. Instead of doing the rational thing, like calling 9-1-1, she called her best friend.

“Abby! There’s been a train derailment.”

 _“Oh my god.”_   Whatever Abby had been expected, it had not been that.

“Northern Boulevard and Queens Plaza South. Elevated train.”

_“Mass casualties?”_

“Probably.” Holtz rounded the corner; people were starting to congregate around the wreckage. “Gotta go, Abs.”

 _“Call me when you—”_ Holtzmann hung up on her. The lead car had been crushed; she took one look at the second car and knew anybody in that one had been killed on impact. If there were survivors in the third, she would be surprised.

She ran for the back cars instead. They were mangled but not crushed. The fifth car back was on its side; she scrabbled up on top of it. The glass in the middle doors had been shattered; Holtz was small enough to squeeze through them and access the interior, so she did. It was a tight fit, but she made it.

It was strange being in a sideways car. Nothing was how it should be. She picked her way through, calling, “Anybody alive in here?” There were some groans, but no real answers. She crouched down by the first person she found and took their pulse. Nothing.

A lump in her throat, Holtz moved to the next one. A woman had been impaled through her calf by a broken piece of pipe. There were gashes from shards of glass on her face and neck. Her arm looked like it was broken. There was so much blood.

Holtzmann leaned down, took her pulse; miraculously the woman was still alive…but with the amount of blood she was losing, she would not be for long. Holtz pulled her t-shirt over her head and tore one strip, then a second two strips off the bottom with her teeth. She looped one strip around the woman’s leg and made a tourniquet, using another short section of broken pipe for extra torque. The bleeding, once brisk, slowed to a slight ooze. Holtz checked that the tourniquet wouldn’t slip, then carefully tied it to the victim’s body to keep it from coming undone. Heart thudding in her ears, Holtz checked on the leg wound; the pipe that impaled the woman, thankfully, was a short section. She would be able to carry her.

There were voices and footsteps above them on the metal side of the train car; people were about to come inside. Holtz froze; with her t-shirt off, her wings were no longer hidden. Visions of cages, needles, and tables with straps flashed by in her mind; her stomach lurched. Quickly she ripped holes for her eyes in the remnants of her shirt and pulled it over her eyes—not the best mask, but it would do. 

“Anybody down there?” a voice called through broken door.

Holtz hesitated, but even she knew that even with her better-than-average strength she would not be able to get out of the car while holding the woman.

“Plenty! This one’s hurt really bad.”

Two men lowered themselves into the car. They were not burly by any means, but they would do.  Holtz gestured at the woman and they rushed over. She rushed for the doors before they saw her wings. When she climbed up there was a crowd of people on top of the car. She froze.  They stared.

Someone finally found their voice. Pointing to the wings folded across her back, the woman whispered, “Lucifer?”

Holtzmann found her voice. “Sometimes.” She winked, but then remembered her shirt. The movement was lost.

Just then the men below yelled for help. Holtz leaned down, her wings unfolding for balance. Someone yelped. She reached down, scooped her arms under the woman, and lifted her through the hole.

“If any of you know first aid, you might want to get in there,” she told the surrounding crowd before running for the edge of the car and launching herself off it. Her wings beat, caught the air. There was a collective gasp as she swooped under the elevated tracks and towards the first place she thought of to take an impaled person—Bellevue.

-/-

The breeze on her face and the steady rise and fall of her body was what brought Erin out of unconsciousness—her comprehension of the world was hazy through an amount of pain she had never experienced before and never wanted to again. Her worst period cramps had not even touched this.

She whimpered involuntarily.

Whoever was holding her spoke. “Shhh...it’s-it’s gonna be okay. Almost there….”

 _Almost there_ seemed like an eternity. At some point, she blacked out again. When she woke up she was being loaded onto a gurney, surrounded by at least half a dozen people.

“You’re gonna be okay,” the voice said, and she felt a hand gently squeeze her own before she was whisked away again.

  -/-

Holtzmann stood blankly at the ER ambulance bay, rooted to the spot, staring where the woman had disappeared long after the sliding doors closed. She knew she should go back, transport more people, but she could not find it in herself to move.

“How bad is it?”

Abby’s voice made her jump. The shorter woman had appeared at her elbow without her noticing. She was dressed in scrubs and a white coat, but none of it was as neat as usual. The scrubs top did not match the bottoms and the coat was wrinkled, even by ER standards. She must have changed as fast as she could after Holtz had called her and run for the hospital.

“Holtz? How bad…?”

She couldn’t speak, only shake her head.

Abby set her face and looked grim. “A long night. We’re gonna be jam packed soon.”

“I’m…I’ll get out of the way. Go home.”

“My place is closer,” Abby said immediately. “Do you still have a key?”

“What?”

“A key, to my apartment. Is it still on your ring?”

“No?”

“Spare key is taped to the inside of the mailbox. Nothing of mine will fit you, but you need to get off the streets and out of those clothes.”

Holtzmann looked down—she was covered in blood. The woman’s blood. She swallowed thickly.

“Crash on my couch. It’s gonna be a long night but when I get off I’ll drop by your place after and get you some stuff.”

“My place is’n Queens, you don’t have to—”

“I can and will. You can’t be of any help back there now. Get going.”

“But—”

My place, now.” Abby pointed in the vague direction of her apartment and looked far too menacing for someone who was supposed to save lives. “Give me your keys and get outta here before the choppers get in the air.”

Holtzmann knew her friend was right. She dug in her sports bra, handed over her apartment key, then ran towards the parking lot and took off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will update as I can but I have a life that likes to kick my butt so I can make no promises on regular updates. Title yanked from "Stand By You" by Rachel Platten. I owe a life debt to @Prioris, who has beta'd this entire thing for me and let me bounce idea after after off her. She's the best! Also endless thanks to wickedspeed and myhartholtz, who got me started on this crazy thing.
> 
> My tumblr is toastweasel. Y'know, if you're interested or whatever. ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for the super positive response to Chapter 1! I did not think I was going to get that sort of response, so here's Chapter 2 a little bit early ;)
> 
> This chapter features witty banter, Abby being an enabler, and certain websites being insensitive in times of crisis.

**Chapter 2**

It was almost five o’clock the next evening when Abby finally stumbled into her apartment. Holtzmann had spread out on her couch, wearing her running leggings and one of Abby’s shirts, watching her TV.  Most importantly, there were takeout containers and a twelve pack of beer on her coffee table.

“You’re still here?” Abby asked, dropping the bags she was carrying by the door.

“I didn’t go out with a subway card so I couldn’t get home.”

The doctor stared at her incredulously. “You have _wings_.”

“I don’t think the NYPD would be down with me flashing the entire city on my way back to Long Island City.”

Abby glanced at the TV; Holtz had been watching the news. The only coverage was that of the N train derailment. “I think the NYPD has bigger problems right now.”

“Yeah, and they don’t need me adding to it. They’ve already got enough of me as it is.”

“Yeah, social media went nuts.”

“Did you know Buzzfeed did an article? 10 Shots of Shirtless Superhero Lucifer That Will Restore Your Faith In Humanity.”

“Oh my god, _really_? People are _dead_!”

“Somebody’s gotten lighten the mood. Or something.”

Abby sighed and shrugged off her coat, walking towards the couch. “Budge up, I’m exhausted.”

Holtzmann sat up and moved to one end of the couch.

Abby collapsed on the other and reached for one of the cans of beer. “My brain feels like you could slurp it out of my ears through a straw.”

The blonde laughed, but it was slightly forced; they were both exhausted. It was obvious that even though Holtzmann had been at Abby’s apartment for nearly twenty-four hours, she had not slept much. Despite their mutual exhaustion, they fell into a comfortable silence as Abby drank her beer. Holtz watched the subtitles scroll across the screen while Abby ate the Ethiopian take out Holtzmann had ordered.

Abby noticed Holtz was restless; her foot jiggled, her feathers rustled under her shirt, she shifted her sitting positions countless times. The doctor had a feeling she knew why.

“She’s doing as well as can be expected...the woman you saved.” Abby got up and went to throw away her trash. “Broken wrist, dislocated shoulder, broken ribs. Ruptured spleen and a bunch of other internal damage. The surgeon wasn’t sure if the leg was going to be a lost cause at first, but it looked like they might have saved it.”

Holtzmann grunted; it was obvious she was trying not to appear too interested. “What’s her name?”

“We don’t know. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet.” Abby puttered around the kitchen, cleaning up, putting the leftovers in the fridge. “Why?”

Holtz shrugged. Abby sighed.

“She’s not on my service but…I’ll keep an ear out. Let you know when she’s up.”

“…..Thanks, Abby.”

“Although I do have a beef with you. After all the time you’ve spent with me, you didn’t stabilize her neck before you picked her up?!”

 “She was bleeding out! I thought that might be a bit more important!” Abby gave her a look over her glasses. Holtzmann deflated slightly. “Sorry, Abs.”

“You really should take a first aid course.” Holtzmann rolled her eyes. “Don’t do that. If you’re going to be a first responder, superhero or no, you should know what to do.”

“I made a tourniquet!”

“And I’m very proud of you, but next time, let’s not risk spinal injury, please.” Abby picked up the bag she had discarded when she walked in and threw it at Holtzmann. “I brought that space shirt you like so much, and the overalls. I also grabbed your wallet.”

“You are a gem among womankind, Abigail Yates.” Holtzmann blew her a cheeky kiss.

“I know. Now give me the money you took out of the breadbox to pay for the food delivery.”

“You don’t miss a thang." The blonde fished out two bills from her wallet and passed them over to Abby. The doctor took them and tucked them into her pocket. “I’m gonna stay a little bit longer, mmkay?”

“Alright, but if you’re still here when I have to leave for my shift tomorrow I’m kicking you out when I go.”

“Roger that.”

Abby gave her an exasperated but fond look, then went to get ready for bed.

-/-

The next afternoon Holtz got a text from Abby in the middle of a session with a client. She finished stretching out the woman’s leg and moving it through its limited range of motion, then scrambled to check her phone while the woman rested.

**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** Your girl is conscious and talking (limitedly).   
**Holtzy:** !!!  
**Holtzy:** What’s her name?

Abby did not respond, which meant she was definitely on a shift dealing with something. The blonde wrinkled her nose in disappointment and put her phone away so she could go back to her appointment. The physical therapist did not have a chance to check her phone until after work. While she waited for the E train out of the city (she thought it was a great irony that she paid money to be transported places whilst she had a perfectly good pair of wings) she responded to Abby.

**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** Dr. Erin Gilbert.  
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** She’ll probably be in the ICU for another few days considering her internals.

Holtzmann immediately opened her browser app and typed in the woman’s name. The browser swirled and she swore to herself; the reception in the station by her job was shit. While she waited for it to load she shot a message back to Abby.

**Holtzy:** !!!  
**Holtzy:** Do you think she’ll be moved to your ward?

Abby must have just gotten off work because she responded right away.

**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** I don’t know but I’ll see what I can do.   **  
Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** ….Do NOT come for visiting hours, Holtz  
**Holtzy:** : (  
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** I’m serious. Her family and friends have first dibs.   
**Holtzy:** Okaaaaaay : (  
**Holtzy:** let me know who is assigned to her PT  
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** [eyeroll emoji] **  
Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** If you’re good and if she’s on my ward I’ll make sure you get recommended for outpatient **  
****Holtzy:** You’re the best Abs  <3  
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** Now go perch on a building or something and find the asshole who sabotaged the tracks.

Holtz scrunched up her face and stepped onto the E train that had just arrived. It was a bit crowded, but she managed to claim a seat. Ever since the derailment, and the news that it had been sabotage and not just an accident, New Yorkers were slightly wary to ride the rails. Or, at least, the tourists were. People like Holtz and Abby, who relied on the subway to get around, had no other choice. Well, Abby had no choice. Holtz had wings, but even in the city of oddities, a flying human was just too much for the populace to handle...even if that human did sometimes masquerade as a superhero.

**Holtzy:** Sigh. I guess **  
Holtzy:** I might need help on this one.   
**Holtzy:** Pretty pls?   
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** Does your help include access to the victim? **  
**Holtzy:**** Your doubt wounds me, Abby : (  
**Holtzy:** I need ears on the police scanner while I’m flying …and maybe eyes on the news looking for blues clues  
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** You really need to pull an Oliver Queen and make a friend at the NYPD.  
**Holtzy:** Got anyone in mind?  
**Holtzy:** Someone who won’t immediately clap the freaky bird human in irons the second they get wind of wings?  
**Holtzy:** …I didn’t think so  
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙ ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ:** Go on patrol, bird brain, I’ll listen to the scanner when I get home.  
**Holtzy:** <3 <3 <3  
**Holtzy:** You're the best! :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

“You know you was saved by Lucifer, right? I mean, damn. Talk about lucky.”

Erin shifted uncomfortably in her hospital linens. She had been awake and conscious a little over four days, but her stay in the hospital was an indefinite sort of deal. The doctors were watching her nervously, concerned with the extent of her internal damage and with the fact her leg wound was not healing as fast as it should. She knew she was lucky to be alive, considering more than half of the people in her car had not survived the impact. She felt guilty, although the fog of morphine made it slightly harder to wallow as none of the emotions or memories really stayed around long enough for her to concretely grab hold of _to_ wallow in.

Patty, after getting over the initial terror of learning her friend was on the derailed train, had stepped up wonderfully. Erin’s only real friend in the city, Patty had handled informing the University of Erin’s hospitalization and visited her every day after work once Erin had regained consciousness. When it became clear the physicist would not be leaving the ICU, let alone the hospital, anytime soon, Patty helped facilitate communication between Erin and the professor replacing her. Patty did all of this for Erin and handled the increased stress at her own job with incredible aplomb, proving herself to be the superhero without a cape that New York needed but did not deserve.

Erin was, more than ever, thankful she had met her.

Patty had just finished telling her the inside scoop on an art theft on her district, when there was a knock on the door. That morning Erin had been downgraded from the ICU into another ward. She had her own private room with a television, window bench, and attached bathroom. The care, so far, had been excellent.

The door opened and there was the sound of footsteps before Erin’s doctor came bustling in through the curtain. A short, motherly sort of woman, Dr. Yates had so far proven excellent in checking up on Erin, and never forgot the physicist’s degree and subsequent title. Patty approved.

“Good evening, Dr. Gilbert,” she greeted, then turned to Patty. “I don’t think we’ve met. Dr. Abby Yates.”

“Patty Tolan.”

“Officer?” the doctor asked, noticing her uniform.

“Yes, ma’am. 19th precinct.”

“You’re a bit far from home,” Dr. Yates commented, reaching for the chart on Erin’s bed. Patty shrugged. Dr. Yates turned her attention to her patient. “How are you feeling, Dr. Gilbert?” she asked, reaching for the chart on Erin’s bed.

“Same as earlier…”

“Woozy?”

“Mm.”

“Pain?”

“Managed.”

Dr. Yates lifted up the blanket covering Erin’s legs, inspecting the injured left one critically. “Has the nurse been in to change these bandages yet today?”

“Not yet. She said she was going to change it after dinner…”

“Which, by the way,” Patty interjected, “has been applesauce for like, thirty-six hours more than it should have been. When can she eat a decent meal?”

“Tomorrow, actually,” Dr. Yates replied as she moved to prod the tender flesh around Erin’s once-dislocated shoulder and hairline-fractured collarbone. Said doctor of particle physics winced at the touch. Dr. Yates inspected her ribs, then pulled away and reached for the chart. “Most of you is healing as can be expected. How’s PT been?”

Erin grimaced. “Painful.”

The medical doctor inclined her head. “It will get better, I promise.” She reached for Erin’s clipboard and made a note. “I’ll change your diet orders and the next time you call for food you should be able to order real food…or as close as it gets here.” Dr. Yates replaced the clipboard and then smiled at her. “Have you grown tired of the mindless television they play yet?”

Erin’s lips twitched. “You have no idea.”

Dr. Yates laughed. “Are you a fan of sci-fi? I think there are some of those downstairs in one of the boxes of books someone donated.”

“I’m more of a mystery girl…”

The doctor smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Are this nice with all of your patients?” Patty asked suspiciously.

“The long-term ones. It can get pretty boring in here.” Abby looked at the readout history of one of the machines Erin was hooked up to. “Well, Dr. Gilbert, you seem all set for a while. I’ll be back when the nurse changes your bandages so I can look at your wound….and I’ll look into those mystery novels for ya.” She winked at Erin, which made Erin smile.

“Thanks, Dr. Yates.”

-/-

Holtz paced the length of the roof she had landed on; it was dark, nearing midnight, and she was anxious. Neither her, nor Abby, or by proxy the police over the scanners, were any closer to figuring out what had happened to cause the trail derailment. There were no security cameras, or at least, none that had picked up anything suspicious. That, if anything, was suspicious. They were in _New York City_ for fuck’s sake—someone or something must have seen or heard something.

She called Abby.

“Anything?” she asked the second Abby picked up.

“Not much. They found out the tracks were melted at a key section of the rail, which caused the catastrophic nature of the derailment. MTA has been inspecting tracks but so far, nothing.”

“So, basically, nada.”

“Yup.”

Holtz groaned, and her wings rustled behind her. She was in her Lucifer get up, so they were free. She fussed with the hem of her hooded jumpsuit anxiously, then with the microphone on her headphones. “I’m going to do another loop then head home—I have work tomorrow and this is not really getting us anywhere.”

“Alright. I’m going to bed, then. Get some sleep, Holtz.”

“G’night, Abby.” She hung up and put her phone back in her pocket. With one final look at the crash clean-up below, she turned and ran for the opposite side of the building. Swooping off it, she nearly took out a very confused pigeon before climbing high above Queens and heading over the river.

As she took a brief wheel over the lights of Times Square to collect herself, about three thousand feet up, the superhero tried to shake herself of an almost overwhelming feeling of failure. It was a sensation that had been dogging her for the past few days, physical materializing in a queasy feeling in her stomach every time she caught a flicker of the news. It lingered throughout the day a tight knot at the back of her neck. No amount of runs, massages, yoga, or weights got rid of it; even flying, which usually relieved all of her worries, could not even touch the tension.

Holtzmann knew, logically, that the train derailment was not her fault. She could not have known that four blocks from her Long Island City apartment that a terrorist would melt the overhead rails and cause the worst train derailment in city history. That being said, the nearly two hundred victims weighed heavy on her conscience. They joined the list of other people she had not been able to save; the people whom she had missed catching by inches, the victims of prowlers she had been unable to stop in time, the missing children unfound.

She tried to pretend these failures did not bother her, but ultimately they did. People were dead. Abby often had to remind her that she could not save everyone, which Holtzmann allowed was true, to some degree. She trusted Abby’s judgement and, besides, Holtz knew her best friend had a better grasp than most that sometimes one could only do their best and nothing more. She knew Abby, like her, knew to push on through hardship, use gifts and abilities for good, and never, ever read the opinions of idiots on the internet.

Pulling herself out of her pity party, Holtzmann dipped out of the thermal over Times Square and turned, following the lights and traffic of Broadway north into Washington Heights. She flew low; high enough nobody could hit her from the ground with a well chucked object but down far enough she could see. The experiment that had granted her the wings on her back had not been so fortunate with her eyesight—she was as blind in the dark as all other mere mortals.

She was checking the above ground tracks. The NYPD had already done it several times since the attack, but Holtzmann wanted to check herself. She ran the whole length of the elevated tracks in Washington Heights and saw nothing. Sighing, she turned back and started home—it was late, and she was exhausted.

And then, just as she passed over where the tracks disappeared underground, she saw it: a flicker of activity on the tracks. Holtz swooped up on a nearby building, landing feather light and running over to the edge, where she crouched birdlike on the edge. She watched the figure wait for a train go by then climb onto the tracks with a flashlight and the dim outline of a bag. She pulled out her phone. The lighting was not great, but she rolled video anyway.

A flame flickered in the darkness, then hardened; Holtzmann realized with cold horror that the source was a blowtorch. The person was trying to cut the tracks. She launched off the roof, wings catching her; there was no thermal, and she had to flap for uplift, and wings of her size made noise. She may have landed silently, but she had just given away that she was watching.

The person on the tracks with the blowtorch turned, saw her, and fled. Holtzmann looked down at the track and saw he had managed to remove a sizeable chunk of metal; she swore. This was a 1 Line track, which meant even at such a late hour she had only about fifteen minutes left before another train came hurtling through the corridor at high speed.

Fifteen minutes or less to catch the person responsible or head of any incoming trains at the next station and avoid another N train disaster. She thought, wildly, that perhaps she could do both. She was not the fastest flyer, but she made good time when she tried. She looked around, frantically, only to discover the figure had disappeared into the darkness.

Swearing, Holtz pocketed her phone and did the next best thing; she made a running take off and flew straight into the tunnel.

.

.

.

Officer Patricia “Patty” Tolan was not terribly fond of her job at the NYPD. She had gotten it during the recession, when she had been jobless and her cousin’s girlfriend’s brother had called in a favor. It had given her a source of income, so she did not lose the brownstone she had been slowly restoring since she had bought it for a song after getting a loan from her uncle. Being a police officer was not the best job, especially when one was black, bookish, and a woman, but her job at the NYPD paid the bills. It especially paid the bills when one worked the overnight shift.

Five years of the graveyard shift had practically made Patty nocturnal, and gave her plenty of time to read up on New York’s history, sketch her planned modifications for her townhouse, and think about quitting to get her Masters. The thought of her loan kept Patty from doing so; she still owed her Uncle money, although she was almost done paying him back.

It was on just one of these nights, where Patty read and dreamed of a better job, that a call went over the radio to say that another sabotage attempt had been made in Washington Heights. Patty, being a member of the 19th precinct, had no reason to go. She left the radio on to listen to the chatter (and keep Erin up to date on what was being investigated) and continued to read her book; she was the only one in the station, which meant she could do pretty much whatever she pleased. In this case, “whatever she pleased” meant read.

The doors to the station opened at nearly three in the morning; Patty could scarcely believe her eyes as the superhero Lucifer walked in, cool as you please, her wings folded neatly behind her.  The woman tossed an envelope on her desk. “Didn’t feel like flying to the 33rd. Since we’re on the same side I thought, in the interest of it all, I’d share.”

Patty swallowed dryly and picked up the envelope gingerly. “It’s cool, girl. Just tell me this ain’t anthrax or anything.”

Lucifer laughed, a throaty sound that was out of sorts with the superhero’s slight body, blonde hair, and green corduroy jumpsuit. “It’s just a video from my phone that I put on a flash drive for your convenience.”

“Well…thanks for that.”

“Next time, I’ll catch the bastard,” Lucifer said darkly, then headed for the doors. She stopped just before them and turned around. “Be lucky you have surveillance footage or your coworkers would never believe you.” She wiggled gloved fingers at the closest camera before winking cockily back at Patty. Then she was out the doors and disappeared into the night.

Patty sat behind her desk, speechless. What the hell?

Finally, she radioed her captain almost robotically and asked him to come back to the station. Then she shook her head, sighed, and muttered to herself, “White people always have to be dramatic. Couldn’t she have just given me the damn flash drive and be done with it?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment you've all been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *thrusts fic into your hands then disappears back into the darkness* Enjoy!

**Chapter 4**

Holtzmann had shown remarkable restraint. It was an entire week and a half before she gave up waiting for Abby to say she could visit Erin and just went. She had read through the entire history of the noted particle physicist, including each and every one of her articles (although some of them went over her head). After work she went home, changed out of her uniform, then headed back out. She dropped by her favorite used book store and picked up a few mystery novels (Abby had mentioned that Erin had been devouring at least a book a day) before hopping on the subway.

“I’m here to see Dr. Erin Gilbert,” she told the receptionist, giving her the most winning smile she could manage. She was not someone Holtzmann recognized.

After a bit of forth, from which Holtz got the location of Erin’s room and the receptionist’s phone number, the physical therapist scooted off for the elevator. “1650, 1650,” she murmured to herself as the elevator climbed. She adjusted the box of books under her arm, her wings rustling under her jacket.

She felt ridiculous. Why was she getting nervous?

The elevator dinged and she stepped out, trying to calm herself. She was just saying hi, she was just dropping off some books. She was a superhero with wings who could fly, she did not get nervous over a girl.

Room #1650 was about halfway down the hallway; the door was open, but the curtain was pulled across the doorway a little bit of the way in. Holtzmann took a breath, exhaled, and rapped on the door.

“Come in.”

Holtz did. She slid the curtain aside and walked in.

“Was there something wrong with the bloo—oh.” The woman, Dr. Gilbert, Erin, had spoken without looking up. But then she had and realized Holtz was not her usual nurse. Her brow crunched cutely into a frown. “Can I help you?”

“I—um—hi.” The therapist suddenly found herself at a loss for words. The entirety of her pre-rehearsed speech flew from her brain. “You don’t know me, but, I…uh…brought you some books….mystery books.  Abby mentioned you like them.”

Dr. Gilbert, Erin, looked confused. “You know Dr. Yates?”

“I—yeah. She’s my best friend.”

The physicist frowned. “Why was Dr. Yates talking to you about me? I thought there was a thing called patient-doctor privilege.”

Holtzmann winced. “I…er. Well…I sort of…was one of the people who rescued you from the crash.”

Erin’s eyes widened comically, her mouth forming a small ‘o’. “You…you were one of the first responders?”

Sure, yeah, let’s go with that. “My apartment is only a couple blocks from the crash. I was out for a run when it happened. I got there, climbed up the car, got—helped get you out…” Words were tumbling out of her mouth faster than she could stop them. “It, uh…sort of fucked me up and I just wanted to know if you were okay or not so Abby told me the basics. That you were awake, that you were reading mystery novels so….I thought…” Holtz gestured at the box, forced herself to slow down. She took a breath, exhaled, tried again. “I’ll just. Leave these and get outta here. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“No, don’t!” Erin said sharply, causing Holtz to freeze. “…Leave, that is. I’m really happy you came. I’m glad I got to meet one of the people that helped rescue me. Everyone said I was saved by Lucifer, but I knew that it couldn’t have been Lucifer alone who got me out of that train car.”

Holtzmann shifted uncomfortably; they were in dangerous territory. She did not like talking about her alter ego in case something came out of her big mouth that should not have.

“Oh…yeah,” she murmured, unenthusiastically. “That guy.” She went over to the window seat, where a bunch of books were already stacked, and set down the box.

“Do you have a problem with Lucifer?”

“What? No. I just—think it’s annoying that the media has been focusing so much on Lucifer when the real people who should be rewarded are the people who did most of the work,” Holtzmann replied, unpacking the contents of the box. She ran her thumb along the worn pages of _The Left Hand of Darkness—_ not mystery, but one of her favorites. She had grabbed it off the shelf at the store instinctively; it had only been fifty cents.

All of her guilt from the past week and a half was bubbling up inside of her. All the hours she had spent in front of the television, switching between local news to CNN, to BBC, watching footage from the crash, listening to the talking points and commenters herald her as a hero for saving one person, even when she had left behind hundreds of others. It had taken first responders almost twenty minutes to get anywhere close to the site; helicopters had had very few places to land to pick up patients.

Holtzmann tossed the book she had been holding onto the window seat angrily, a testament to her frustration and guilt. “Lucifer left after she took you and never came back. She has wings! She could have shuttled the badly wounded to hospitals like she did you but she just….vanished. Made the first responders do all the work when so many people could have…” She trailed off. There was a long pause as Erin stared at her. “Sorry.”

“I think you’re being a little hard on her,” the physicist said after a longer stretch of silence, in which the only noise came from the machine’s Erin was hooked up to and the rustling Holtzmann made as she unloaded books. “She might be a superhero but even superheroes can only do so much. Besides, she had her own identity to consider. When she showed up, she wasn’t even in costume. The nurses told me she dropped me off here wearing nothing but leggings and a sports bra. The fact that she showed up at all to help, threw her identity to the wind to save my life before I bled out, is something in itself.”

The therapist was quiet for a long time. It looked like she was not the only one who had spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about Lucifer’s actions the night of the crash. She removed the final book and folded the flaps of the box she had brought them all in closed. “I guess you’re right.”

She turned around just in time to see Erin smile a bit.

“You brought…a lot of books.”

“There was a sale on paperbacks,” the blonde said lamely.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Holtzmann. Jillian Holtzmann, but only my mom calls me Jillian.” Holtzmann tried for a winning smile and a wink; she was rewarded with a pink flush that worked its way into Erin’s cheeks.

“Erin….Gilbert. But you knew that already, I’m guessing, considering you’re here.”

“Yeah. But don’t forget the Doctor. Or is it Professor?”

“A bit of both,” the physicist allowed. “I teach at Columbia University.”

“I know.” Then Holtzmann cringed internally. Could she keep her foot out of her mouth for literally five seconds? “I, uh….Googled you.”

“It’s okay,” Erin said with a soft smile. “I hope you kept out of my ratemyprofessor evaluations, though.”

The therapist grinned. “That one kid, Tom, left you a pretty nasty review. Sounded like he just couldn’t stand that he was flunking a class taught by a woman. Did you know you have a chili pepper?”

The physicist groaned. “Don’t remind me. Those kids are twenty years younger than me, the fact they think I’m hot is creepy.”

Holtzmann laughed. “Well, if it’s any consolation, they’re right.”

Erin scrunched up her nose. “Can we move on please?”

“Sure.” Holtzmann put the empty box on the floor and sat at the only bit of the window seat now not covered in mystery novels. “What do you want to talk about?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to make a GIANT shoutout to Prioris, who let me ask about umpteen million questions about hospitals and what poor Erin would have to go through post-train derailment regarding treatment, injuries, etc. An after all of that, she offered to beta read for this fic. Prioris is an angel in miracle seventeen-pocket Aviator scrubs and is also an AMAZING author--I highly recommend her fanfic 'Motor City Madness' which you can read right here on ao3! It is a piece of art. 
> 
> Secondly, because of new medical information from Prioris, there have been rewrites. Nothing major, but you might want to give the previous chapters a glance over so you don't miss anything. 
> 
> Thirdly, I had a plot breakthrough with this puppy and am no longer struggling to figure out where we are going so BUCKLE UP cuz it's gonna be one hell of a ride.
> 
> Okay, that's it. Enjoy this new chapter. Thanks for waiting so patiently for it!

**Chapter 5**

“One quarter pounder with cheese for the lady, as requested.”

Erin’s eyes lit up as Holtzmann dangled the bag through the curtain before following it through. “I was just kidding!”

“I miiiiiiight have brought you a milkshake, too.”

“Books and now food? Are you a guardian angel?”

Holtz laughed and brought the bag and cup over, putting it on the little swinging tray attached to Erin’s hospital bed. It was the next day, and after talking with Erin until visiting hours had been over, the therapist had decided to come back after work. Her excuse: Erin had mentioned at one point that she would kill for a quarter pounder with cheese. So Holtzmann had acquired.

Erin inspected the milkshake and the engineer scuffed her boot against the tile. “I didn’t know if you were a chocolate or vanilla milkshake kinda gal…”

“Strawberry, actually, or cookies and cream…but this is more than perfect.”

Holtzmann grinned and sat on the window seat. She watched Erin unwrap her burger and take a big bite. As she chewed the blonde looked away, noticing _The Left Hand of Darkness_ carefully draped over one of the rails of the bed. Gesturing at the book Holtz asked, “What do you think of LeGuin?”

The physicist finished her mouthful of burger before responding. “I’m about halfway through. It’s….” She hedged, “different?”

“Weird, right?”

“Very….I think the drugs help me understand it, though. Is that weird?”

Holtzmann laughed. “Oxy’s a trip. I read it in college for a literature class and was torn between this is ‘some cool gender shit’ and ‘what the actual fuck is happening?’”

Erin laughed; Holtz was enchanted with the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed.

They fell into silence while Erin ate. As she was finishing the therapist asked, “How…how are you feeling?”

Erin made a face. “They wanted me to try walk today, but I couldn’t manage the crutches with my shoulder…and I can’t put weight on my leg yet.”

“Ouch.”

The physicist sighed. “It’s very frustrating. I used to run every morning, but now I’m here and getting stiff stuck on one spot even with the PT. The oxy has me cloudy so doing anything more than reading is hard, my writing hand is broken, and the bed shifts every twenty minutes to prevent bed sores so…”

“You can’t get a decent night’s sleep,” Holtzmann finished for her.

Erin grimaced. “Yeah.”

“And let me guess, the nurses come in every few hours to check your vitals and draw your blood, so you can’t sleep if you wanted to.”

Erin looked at her strangely. “How did you know?”

“Physical therapist, remember? I used to work at this hospital.”

“Is that how you met Dr. Yates?”

“Sort of. Long story.” Holtzmann realized they were in dangerous territory and quickly changed the topic. “Do you want a massage? Strictly off the books of course, no PT leg stretching necessary.”

“Mmmm…that sounds nice.”

“Point me to where it hurts—er, wait, let me rephrase. Where is it stiff?”

The physicist laughed. “My back is killing me. Shoulder is, too, but—”

“If I touched it, Abby would kill me…if she found out I was here.” Holtz stood up and rolled her neck and shoulders. “One back massage it is! Scoot up so I can get behind you.”

With some difficulty Erin did. The physical therapist carefully inserted herself behind her, being very careful not to tug on any wires or tubes. When her hands slid against Erin’s flesh, the physicist jumped.

“You okay?”

“Your hands are cold.”

Holtzmann laughed. “Sorry about that.” She gently started massaging the physicist’s back, making her moan softly. “Lower back pain?”

“Mmm. And middle…”

“Gotcha.” Holtzmann continued, and it was wondering to feel Erin begin to melt underneath her touch. Considering the fact that Erin and Holtzmann, for all intent and purposes, barely knew each other, it was amazing that she let go so fast. Most people took a session or two to react to her massages the way Erin did. Was she that starved for human affections apart from the doctors?

“Okay, I’m only gonna ask this once,” said a voice, breaking into Holtzmann’s quiet concentration. “Who the hell are you?”

Both the therapist and physicist froze, but for very different reasons. Erin had frozen because Patty had come into her hospital room to find a stranger in her friend’s bed, sitting very close behind her and touching her in such a way that she had been reduced to a rag doll. Holtzmann had frozen because she recognized Patty as the officer she had handed the flash drive almost a week beforehand.

Erin, thankfully, spoke first. “Patty, this is Holtzmann. She’s…the person I told you about.”

Patty eyed her suspiciously. “The one who brought all of the books?”

“That’s the one,” Holtzmann piped up.

The officer’s eyes narrowed. “You sound familiar.”

“Uuuuh, dunno why that would be,” the blonde stalled, swearing internally. Why had she opened her big fat mouth back at the station? Why had she not gotten around to installing a voice modifier in her jumpsuit? “Have you done PT before?”

“Broke my ankle three years ago and did a stint of it.”

Holtzmann latched onto that piece of information. “Outpatient?”

“Yeah, at some place in East Harlem. Triumph?”

“Oh, yeah! I used to work there before I moved to Beyond Basic.” The therapist was lying, but she could not let Patty know about her secret identity. Nobody could know—except Abby, and sometimes, Holtzmann thought even that was risk enough. Holtz tried to mislead Patty further. “I don’t think I ever had you, but you could have heard my voice there.”

“That’s probably it.” Patty turned her attention to Erin. “How you doin’, girl?”

As the attention was brought away from her, the blonde realized she was still in the bed with Erin. At some point her hands had settled protectively on her hips. Holtzmann released Erin like the contact with her skin had burned her and started to maneuver her way out from behind her.

“You eaten yet?” Patty asked as the therapist made contact with solid ground once more.

The physicist nodded and gestured with her head at the half-eaten hamburger and milkshake. “Holtz brought me food.”

“Did she?”

Holtzmann nodded. “I know how boring the food here can get.” At Patty’s prolonged staring, she tugged on her ear. “Well, I’ve gotta go. Um…nice to meet you.”

She started to flee, but Erin’s voice stopped her. “Holtzmann, wait!”

She turned in the curtain way. “Yeah?”

“I should finish the Le Guin by tomorrow. Can we...talk about it sometime?”

The therapists’ nervousness spread in grin. “Sure thing. See you tomorrow, hot stuff.”

-/-

“I’m worried,” Abby said over Pho two days later. Holtzmann had brought Abby lunch at the hospital at her request. They were in the break room eating and talking over the weak.

Holtzmann paused in her noodle slurping and canted her head to let Abby know she had her attention.

 “It’s been two weeks since that foiled attempt in Washington Heights, which was three days after the first one. But since then…nothing.”

“They’re probably regrouping,” Holtzmann reasoned. “They can’t touch the tracks, not with the NYPD and MTA swarming them like a hive of angry ants every second of the day.”

“If they’re regrouping, that means they are planning,” Abby pointed out.

“I know…” The blonde sighed and set down her chopsticks. “I’m doing the best I can, Abs.”

“I’m not saying it’s your fault!” the doctor said quickly. “I’m just saying we can’t get complacent.”

“Who are you, Mad Eye Moody?” Holtzmann asked, before slamming her fists on the table and barking, “CONSTANT VIGILENCE!”

“I should never have loaned you those books,” Abby said dryly, mopping up some of the soup the therapist had spilled in her shenanigans.

“Somebody had to catch me up on pop culture.” Holtzmann sighed and dropped back in her chair. “I guess I should start going on patrol again now that the media has moved on.”

“You should,” Abby said encouragingly. “I’ll put the scanners on my phone and listen between visits.”

The blonde tried a smile, but it fell flat.

“Don’t worry, Holtz. We’ll get this guy.”

-/-

It felt good to be back on patrol. Holtzmann had not flown since the second track incident, and she always seemed to forget how restless she got when she was grounded for long periods of time. Maybe that was why she had spent so much time with Erin in her hospital room lately. But now—now she was in the air, which was just getting cool. Soon it would be October.

Holtzmann took a turn over Times Square, then headed north to Central Park. She spotted some kids squabbling in one of the open spaces and touched down to see what it was about.

“What’s the trouble, fellas?” she asked, startling them.

Starry-eyed, they crowded around her. “Lucifer?”

“Sure am. What’s up, guys?” she asked, looking around at the five boys who could not have been out of high school. “I heard you guys yellin’ from all the way up there.”

“Juan kicked the ball into a tree and we can’t get it out!” one said.

“It’s my only ball,” another one whined.

“Is that it? Which tree?” They pointed her to it. It was about fifty feet in the air, lodged in the ‘v’ between a branch and the trunk of the tree. “Wow, that’s pretty high up there. Nice kick, Juan!”

She wandered over to it, absently flexing her wings as she inspected the tree. The five trailed after her like puppies. She could hear at least one of the boys taking pictures on their phone—they did not have the shutter sound turned off.

“I think I can get it,” she told them, to their evident delight. “Stand back!” They took a few steps back. “…No, seriously, get back.” She shooed them back with her hand until they were a good twenty-five feet away. She grinned, nodded, and turned back to the tree. “Okay, right, time to make their day.”

She backed up a bit, flexing her wings. She would have to time everything just right. She paused for a moment then took a running leap at the tree, her wings snapping out and beating at just the right time to take her up. The boys cheered. She grabbed the branch the ball was stuck in and pulled herself onto it, suddenly glad for all of the time she spent working on her core muscles. Once she had seated herself on the branch, wings tucked neatly against her back to keep from snagging on anything, she plucked the ball from its spot and tossed it down.

One of them caught it, mouth open in awe.

“Thanks, Lucifer!”

“Don’t mention it. Keep outta trouble, guys,” she told then before scrambling to her feet and launching herself into the air. The boys hurled themselves to the ground as she dipped over them, grazing them with her wingtips before climbing into the sky once more.

She circled once or twice over Central Park, basking in the feeling of being a hero for something mundane, not life or death. It was a rare feeling for her these days. Satisfied, she flew off to continue her patrol. She did not notice the man with the surveillance lens on his camera step back onto the path on the edge of the clearing to check his photos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Any and all medical complaints can be taken up with Prioris. Anything else can be directed at me. ;) Would love to know what you all thought of the chapter. Cheers!


	6. Chapter 6

Holtzmann dropped by Erin’s room the next day with a new box of ten cent paperbacks tucked under her arm. The physicist was propped up in her bed, watching the evening news. The remnants of dinner sat on her swinging tray.

“Hey there, hot stuff. How was PT today?”

Erin muted the TV and smiled. “Hi, Holtz. What’s in the box?”

“Ah ah ah, not until you tell me how PT was.”

The physicist rolled her eyes. “It was. Same old, same old. I can put a little weight on the leg now.”

“That’s pretty solid!” Holtzmann held out a fist. “Pound it.”

Erin laughed and tapped the therapist’s knuckles with her unbroken hand. “Now will you tell me what’s in the box?”

“Of course.” Holtzmann set the box down on the window ledge. “Saw you were running out of books, so I swung by and got you some more.”

“More mystery?”

“Yup,” the blonde replied, pulling out the three mystery books in question, then reaching back into the box. “I also picked up a cool urban fantasy steampunk series I’ve heard is awesome. I got you the first two because that’s all they had, but if you like them, I’ll go get the rest.”

“What’s it called?”

“The Parasol Protectorate,” Holtzmann replied with flourish, pulling the first book of the series out and turning it over to the back cover. She proceeded to read from it in increasingly ridiculous fashion, adapting an awful British accent in an attempt to make her dramatic reading even funnier.

“ ‘ _Alexia Tarabotti is laboring under_ a great many social tribulations _.’_ ” Holtz winked at Erin, causing her to smile. “ ‘First! S _he has no sooooul. Second! she’s a_ spinster! _whose father is both Italian_ and _dead!’_ Horrible form, really, don’t you think, Erin? ‘ _Third! She is being rudely attacked by a vampire_ to whom she has not been properly introduced! _”_ The therapist paused to grasp theatrically at her chest before waggling her eyebrows at the physicist.

Erin lost it and started to gasp in hysterical laughter, then grasped her side as her ribs pained her. She winced but could not stop laughing.

Holtzmann, undeterred, continued to read the blurb in its entirety. When Erin was wheezing and out of breath from laughter, the therapist passed her the book. “Interested?”

“I’ll give it a go,” Erin managed, taking the book and wiping the tears from her eyes.

“Excellent! You’ll have to tell me if it’s worth the read.” Holtzmann looked at the muted TV, where Lester Holt was giving the final story of the nightly news. She froze as a picture of herself came up on the screen…or, rather, a picture of Lucifer.

Erin followed her gaze up to the TV. “Oh, yeah, isn’t that a great story? Lucifer helped some kids get their ball out of a tree yesterday.”

“It’s great,” Holtz said dimly, watching the looping video of her running, jumping, and swooping into the tree to rescue the ball. Her mouth had gone dry.

“I know she’s not your favorite,” Erin continued, “but after the horrible shit that happened, it’s a nice feel good story.”

The therapist pressed her lips together for the briefest moment; she had just been doing something nice for some kids. How exactly was that news worthy of being spread nationwide?

Erin, sensing her tension, turned off the TV. Holtzmann, grateful, turned around and decided at that very moment she was going to keep Erin laughing the rest of the night.

.

.

.

On the way home, because she hated herself, Holtzmann pulled up the video from the nightly news and gave it a watch.

_“And finally tonight, superhero Lucifer is in the news again for all the right reasons. Yesterday she was caught on video getting a ball out of a tree in Central Park for some overzealous youngsters. The video, shown here, has since gone viral. Lucifer has come into the spotlight recently for her involvement in the terrorist attacks against the subway here in New York City—three weeks ago she prevented a major derailment in Washington Heights and was a first responder on the scene of the J train derailment.”_

The video cut away to one of the boys she had gotten the ball for. _“It’s really cool that she’s involved in all this lifesaving stuff but she took her time to help us out. Lucifer is really cool.”_

Another civilian, a woman, this one Holtzmann didn’t recognize. _“I think it’s good to know that even after all of this, she still has her humanity. It’s really, really inspiring. She’s a role model for a lot of little girls out there, which I think is really great.”_

Lester Holt started his outro, but Holtzmann was not listening. She leaned her head against the window and sighed. Her wings, hidden under her shirt and jacket, instinctively pulled closer to her body as the train pulled into the station before her stop.

She had only wanted to do some good in the world; she had never asked for this.

-/-

They fell into a rhythm. Patty would visit Erin in the morning, on her way home from the graveyard shift at the 19th, and Holtzmann would visit her after work. This way, Holtzmann avoided Abby, who had still not given her official approval to visit Erin, and Erin got visitors spread out throughout the day. It worked out fairly well, until one day in the first week of October.

“Hey, Er-bear, I brought kababs from the Iranian place next to my—” Holtzmann came to a screeching halt halfway through the curtain when she saw Abby standing next to Erin’s bed, chatting amiably with her. Holtzmann abruptly stopped talking, but it was too late. She froze in the doorway.

Silence.

Abby glared.

Holtzmann stared back, eyes wide at being caught.

Finally, “You never bring me Iranian kebabs.”

“I’ll bring them for you for lunch tomorrow?” the blonde asked weakly.

“That will be the first step in your penance, yes.”

Holtz winced. “What are you doing here, Abs?”

“Covering for Doctor Kidahara. And you?”

The therapist held up the plastic bag she had been carrying. “Kebab delivery for Dr. Erin Gilbert. Chicken, hold the parsley, lots of bread.”

Erin, who had been sitting stock-still in her bed watching the tense exchange between the two women, flushed. “Thank you, Holtzmann.”

“Don’t mention it.” The blonde came into the room and brushed past Abby to set the bag on the table connected to Erin’s bed.

Abby waited until Holtzmann had helped the physicist unpack the bag of food (Erin’s arm was still in a sling, although her range of motion had improved greatly due to daily PT) before grabbing her by the arm and saying, “Can we talk? Outside?”

“I’d rather not,” Holtzmann said promptly, but knowing it would just be better to get it over with, allowed Abby to steer her out of Erin’s room into the hallway.

“I can’t believe you,” Abby said sharply as soon as the door was closed. “What did I _specifically_ tell you?”

The blonde stared at the ground, suddenly very interested in the dirt on her Converse sneakers.

“Well?”

“To not come and visit Erin until you said it was okay,” she mumbled.

“Exactly.” Abby crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Why do you think I suggested that?”

Holtzmann shrugged.

Abby sighed. “It’s because I knew this would happen. If you met her before you’d done processing yourself, you’d feel responsible and get attached in an attempt to process your grief. Were the books you, too?”

The therapist nodded.

“Christ. Bringing her books, food…you’re trying to lessen your guilt about the derailment by spoiling her.” It wasn’t a question.

“Is it so bad if I am?” Holtzmann demanded. “Maybe I know how it feels like, to be stuck in a room in a bed for days on end, waiting to be given my freedom from people in lab coats.”

“Holtz—”

“You’re a doctor, but you have no idea what it’s like. So what if I’m trying to make her time in this awful place better? She’s lonely, Abs!” Holtzmann gestured angrily at the door. “She’s only got me’n Patty. Her parents haven’t visited and she’s been here almost four weeks!”

“Her parents did visit,” Abby said coolly, dragging the blonde’s tirade to a halt. “Three days after she got out of the ICU. They had a blowout fight with their daughter and were escorted off the premises by security.”

The therapist looked stricken. “But—she didn’t—”

“You aren’t the only one with secrets, bird brain,” Abby said softly. “How long have you been visiting her?”

“Two weeks?” The blonde hedged. “Maybe three.”

“Then please explain to me why, exactly, she would tell a perfect stranger about the fight she had with her family when it took you years to open up to—”

“I get it, Abs,” Holtzmann said harshly, cutting her off.

“Do you?” Abby asked, an eyebrow arching almost into her hairline. “It’s great that you’ve made friends with Erin, but is it really worth it to yourself now that you are torturing yourself with her?”

Holtzmann sputtered. “That’s not—it’s not—”

They were cut off by Abby’s phone going off with a klaxon alarm, meaning she had an important message. She frowned and checked it; her eyes widened. “Gas explosion in Chelsea.”

“Fuck,” Holtzmann swore. “I’ll run home, get my suit—”

“And what exactly is Erin going to think if you go running off?” Abby asked, nodding at Erin’s hospital room. “Come on, Holtz, think. She’s a scientist. A gas main explodes in Chelsea, you run out the door and disappear, and then fifteen minutes later Lucifer is spotted helping at the disaster site? How long do you think it’ll take her to do the math?”

The therapist bit her lip.

“We’ve already got the information which means the place will be crawling with EMS by the time you get there. There’s nothing you can do, Holtz.” Abby unfolded her arms from across her chest. “I know it’s hard but just…go spend time with Erin. You’re here anyway, you might as well.”

Holtzmann pressed her lips into a thin line.

Abby sighed. “I’ve got to get downstairs but just… think about why you’re doing it, okay?” the doctor asked, reaching over and squeezing her arm. “What are you trying to accomplish? What are your motivations? Or better yet, what should they should be.”

“Got it,” Holtzmann murmured, stuffing her hands in her jacket. “Go save lives, Abs.”

“We’re not done talking,” Abby warned before pointing to Erin’s room. “Go keep a particle physicist company. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Holtzmann trudged off as bidden, a testament to how much Abby’s words had stung. Abby waited for Holtzmann to go inside before starting for the stairs.

.

.

.

After visiting hours were over, Holtzmann went flying. Her head was a mess and she needed desperately to clear it. After a quick trip back to her apartment, she pulled on her jumpsuit with the polycarbonate plates and her little strip of leather she called a mask before taking to the skies. She was not expecting trouble, but the jumpsuit and mask would help hide her identity. With cameras watching her every move, she had to be extra vigilant.

Frankly, she would have loved to get in a scrap up with a bad guy. Anything to get the tension out of her body and the guilt off her consciousness. She wasn’t doing anything useful. She was nowhere close to catching the terrorist that had caused the J train derailment.

But Holtzmann did not get her wish; New York was quiet. She flew aimlessly, skimming the top of the Empire State Building before finally settling on the roof of an office building. She let her legs dangle over the side and put her face in her hands.

Maybe Abby was right. Maybe she _was_ seeking some sort of convoluted penance by catering to Erin’s every whim.  But at least with Erin she felt like she was doing something instead of running night after night of failed reconnaissance. She could make Erin smile, and laugh, and was able to bring her things that broke the monotony. She knew from experience that these little pleasures made the prison-like experience of an extended hospital visit all the more bearable. Was it so wrong to want to lessen the pain for someone else?

After almost thirty minutes on the rooftop, with no real answer to her quandary and the cold Fall air sinking into her bones, Holtzmann stood. She quickly checked her messages and, finding nothing urgent, she launched herself back into the skies, hoping to find some sort of peace from her restless thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	7. Chapter 7

The next afternoon, Holtzmann appeared at Bellevue around noon with lunch for both herself and Abby--Iranian kebabs, as she had promised.  

 **Holtzy:** I’m at the park with food  
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙** **ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ** **:** Do you think a public venue will save you? **  
Holtzy:** No **  
Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙** **ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ** **:** Good. I’ll be out asap

Holtzmann sat at one of the picnic tables and fiddled with her phone until Abby arrived, still in yesterday’s scrubs and lab coat. The therapist wordlessly handed her a Rockstar.

“Thank you,” Abby said, popping it open and taking a swig.

“Are you dead yet?”

“Nearly. I get off at five.”

“Only five more hours to go, then, before you are a free elf. You’re off tomorrow?”

“Mmm.”

“Godspeed.”

Abby saluted her with the Rockstar and took another drink. Holtzmann unpacked their lunch, pushing a container of rice and kabobs towards her best friend. Abby took it, picked up a fork and began to eat. Holtzmann poked at her own food, waiting for the lecture that Abby had been forced to give up for the night before.

Finally, when Abby was done eating, she turned to Holtzmann. “You texted to say you went flying. Did you think about what I said last night?” The blonde nodded. “And?”

Holtzmann fiddled with the strap to one of her gloves. “I think…you might have been right…but I, uh, also thought some other things.”

Abby leaned on her hand, an indication for her to continue.

“I think…at first you were right. About the guilt thing. That was totally a factor at the beginning.”

“I’m sensing a but here.”

The therapist nodded, her tone stilted as she continued. “Now that I’ve gotten to know her, Erin, I really like her. We get on... and her friend, Patty, too. She’s good, too. It’s… nice… to have other people to talk to. It’s—I’ve missed people and just… talking to people who get it. Who get me.”

“I see.”

“You’ve been there for me for forever, since I got here, and I really appreciate it but…” The blonde sighed and tugged on her ear. “I know the situation isn’t amazeballs and I could have handled the introduction better but... friends are really great, Abs. And I haven’t had them, besides you since… well, ever. And it’s about time I got them, and did good things for them.”

The doctor nodded and patted Holtzmann’s hand reassuringly. “ _That_ , just so we’re clear, is the revelation I was waiting for you to have. Proud of you.”

The blonde smiled wanly. “Thanks. They don’t exactly teach you how to be a decent human being at Sanctuary.”

“Are you saying you just _wing it_ a lot of the time, then?”

Holtzmann rolled her eyes. “Really, a wing it pun? You tried, five out ten.”

“Well don’t _fly off the handle_ about it.”

“Better, I give that one a solid seven.”

“What can I do to reach Lucifer-approved _heights_?”

“I dunno, the criterion is really _up in the air_ at the moment.”

Abby grinned and help up her hand for a high five. Holtz brought it home. Then the two of them started laughing.

“Ooooh man, have I ever mentioned how glad I am that we met?” the doctor asked, dabbing a few tears of laughter away from the corners of her eyes with her lunch napkin.

“I believe you could stand to mention it more.”

“Oi, birdbrain, don’t forget I let you sleep on my couch for five years.”

“I know,” Holtz said with a soft smile. “You’re the best, Abs.”

“Aw, shucks.” Abby busied herself with packing up the rest of her lunch trash.

“I should get going,” Holtzmann sighed, reaching down to grab the bag she had brought with her.

“Not going to visit Erin first?” Abby asked, surprised.

Holtzmann gestured at the bag. “I was going to suit up and go on a patrol.”

The doctor checked her watch. “She should just be about done with PT. Why don’t you be a real hero and get her lunch?”

The therapist rolled her eyes, then paused. “You know her schedule now?”

“You’re not the only one getting friendly,” Abby said, then paused. “She’s nice, and smart. I stop in sometimes if we’re not hammered with traffic and I can actually get a break. It’s nice to be able to talk star science with someone.”

Holtzmann grinned; Abby liked astrophysics as a side hobby. Her apartment was filled with star-related things. Erin’s degree might have been in particle physics but enough of the science overlapped so the conversation was probably interesting enough.

“Seriously, go make Erin’s day. Patrol can wait.”

“She has been talking about Caesar salad a lot recently…”

Abby nodded and stood, taking the plastic bag with their trash. “There you go. There’s a sweetgreen around the corner. I’ll tell the receptionist to let you up.”

“Thanks, Abs.”

.

.

.

Holtzmann had to wait for Erin to get back from therapy, but the look on her face as she was wheeled into the room was priceless.

“Holtz!”

“Hey there, champ,” the blonde said, looking up from Erin’s copy of _The Cuckoo’s Calling_.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, delighted.

“I was in the area and thought you might like lunch.”

“Is it visiting hours already?” the handsome PT tech asked, surprised. “Time really flies, eh?”

“It helps when you have an in with Dr. Yates.”

The PT helped Erin back into bed, then left with the wheelchair. Holtzmann fetched her a glass of water when she asked. When she came back, the physicist was adding the dressing to her salad.

“One glass of water for the pretty lady at table 1650.”

Erin rolled her eyes, but smiled regardless. “Thank you.” She took a sip. A nurse came in with medication to put into Erin’s drip. After the requisite ritual of bracelet checks and charting, the nurse chatted with Erin for a few minutes before departing. “Is it Saturday? Is that why you’re here?”

“Mmmhmmm.” Holtz carefully lounged in the window seat, careful not to disturb Erin’s stacks of books. “Don’t have much else to do.”

“Well, I really appreciate it.” Erin reached for the remote, then paused. “Do you mind if I turn on the news? I always watch the local one o’clock.”

“Go for it.”

Erin did so. There was so local news about the subway schedule changes for the E, which was predictably causing a massive uproar. Holtzmann turned back to _The Cuckoo’s Calling_ as Erin ate.

_“And breaking news now, we are getting reports that famed supernatural debunker Martin Heiss has set his sights on a new target: the superhero Lucifer.”_

If Holtzmann would have been eating, she would have choked. Her head snapped up to the TV, and she and Erin watched.

_“Heiss has been collecting images of the winged wonder and says, quite simply, that Lucifer’s iconic wings are fake.”_

_“It’s very clear, honestly, that these wings are mechanical_ ,” Heiss said, as an image of Lucifer from the initial N Line crash came up. The image was zoomed in on her back, where her wings sprouted from the slits Holtzmann had spent hours tailoring in her sports bra. _“It’s a good bit of makeup work and mechanics, beautiful prop work, but they are just that: props.”_

_“Does it matter if they are props or mechanical if Lucifer is still out there saving lives?”_

_“Saving lives should be done by the professionals. Whoever the girl behind Lucifer is should step back and let the emergency service personnel of this great city do their jobs. She could seriously injure someone in all her mucking about, and if those wings malfunction, she could hurt herself and waste taxpayer money.”_

The newscaster nodded sagely. _“Thank you, Dr Heiss. Coming up after the break, we’ll have the mayor’s assistant Jennifer Lynch on to talk about these serious allegations against Lucifer. Is her time in this city running out? Don’t touch that dial, we’ll be back in just a minute.”_

“Man after your own heart, right?” Erin asked as the segment cut to commercial.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Holtzmann snapped, then instantly regretted it as a hurt expression crossed Erin’s expression. She took a deep breath and tried again. “Lucifer… isn’t my favorite, but I think it’s stupid to call her a fraud.”

 _But he’s right,_ the niggling voice in her head said. _You have no idea what you’re doing._

“You saw her wings, right?” Erin asked. Holtzmann hesitated, then nodded. Subconsciously, her own wings shifted and pressed closer to her body, as if aware of the accusations against them. “Do you think they’re real?”

Holtzmann shrugged. “Looked real to me…besides, with wings that big, any harness Lucifer would be wearing to support them would weigh fifty or sixty pounds at least. That kind of weight would be murder on your back to just walk around with...and with the physics of flying? Forget it.  There’s a reason humans switched to propellers and turbo engines instead of trying to recreate wings.” She paused, realized she might have given too much away but sounding too defensive. Why did she talk so much? She cleared her throat. “Anyways...did it look like she was wearing a harness in that picture?”

“No,” Erin allowed thoughtfully.

“Exactly.” Holtzmann got up and started pacing angrily. “He’s just a stupid old man who doesn’t know what he’s talking about but is trying to take the piss out of someone who is just trying to do some good for this fucked up city.”

“You don’t have to remind _me_ of that, Holtz.”

The therapist stopped and looked over at her guiltily. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

_Of course you weren’t thinking, you idiot. And if you open your mouth any more, you might as well just fess up to your secret identity._

“It’s okay,” Erin replied, derailing Holtzmann’s train of thought. “…I’ve never seen you this worked up.”

“Didn’t sleep much last night,” the therapist lied lamely. It was only a lie of omission—she _had_ only slept an hour or two. She had crawled back to her apartment at half past six, after many hours of fruitless flying, and promptly passed out before dragging herself out of bed to buy lunch for her best friend.

“Was it the fight with Abby?” Erin asked sympathetically, thinking Holtzmann had lost sleep over her discussion with her the night before in the hallway.

“Uh, yeah…had to think about some things. Brain wouldn’t shut up.”

_Abby, not Doctor Yates. Interesting._

“I’ve had those days.” The physicist’s tone was careful, as if the topic was sensitive. Holtzmann swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.

“Erin—I—” She wanted to spill everything, but at the last second stopped herself. “I have to go…”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed at this abrupt change. “Okay.”

“Sorry. I’ll come back tomorrow?”

“Okay, sure.”

Holtz grabbed her duffle bag off the floor. “C’ya.”

“Bye…”

Later, as Holtzmann took to the skies, she tried not to remember the sad look on Erin’s face as she left. She made sure to fly past Bellevue on her patrol and she hoped that Erin was looking out her window as she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed! I have some chapters backlogged and am going to try to update every other week. No promises, though, cuz I'm busy and so is Prioris. 
> 
> Major thanks to Pri, as always, for the beta and for the fixing of medical jargon. She's the best. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is where it picks up. Strap in, folks, here we go!

In the last week of October, right before Halloween, Erin was finally discharged from the hospital. Both Holtzmann and Patty were there to celebrate the joyous occasion. After all of the paperwork had been completed, and Erin had changed (gingerly) into the jeans and sweater Patty had brought her, they wheeled her out to the street to catch an Uber.

“It feels so weird to be wearing pants,” she commented to Holtzmann, as the Uber drove them through the streets of New York. “I’ve been in those damn gowns for forever.”

The therapist laughed.

“It feels so weird to be in a car.”

“Better than the subway right now.”

Patty glanced back at them in the rearview mirror from the passenger seat. Holtzmann pretended not to notice, but knew what the glance was about; there had been increased chatter about another subway attack and the police were worried. By extension, Holtzmann worried too, and so did the rest of the public that watched the news.

Erin knew none of this; the report had come out that morning as she had been signing the discharge paperwork. The physicist was finally going home. Or, rather she was going to Patty’s, as Erin lived on the sixth floor of an eight-story walkup off Columbus Circle. That had been fine when Erin had been hale, hearty, and abled, but now that she was unable to walk further than a tenth of a mile at a time, climbing six flights of stairs was out of the question. 

Patty, hero that she was, had converted the living room of her Sugar Hill townhouse into a temporary bedroom for Erin until she could finish her recovery. Despite the almost hour-long commute, Holtzmann had promised to come by and help Erin with her at-home PT several times a week.

When they got to Patty’s place, Holtz and Patty carefully helped Erin out of the car. The physicist was determined to make it up the stairs herself. Patty went to unlock the door as Holtzmann hovered behind Erin in case she fell or stumbled. It was slow going.

“Nice place,” the therapist noted once they finally got inside and Erin was seated on the futon Patty had borrowed from her cousin Mookie to act as Erin’s bed for the next several weeks.

“Thanks. It’s been a long time comin’, baby.”

Holtz grinned and looked around. With the futon up there was plenty of room to work Erin through stretches and simple chair exercises. She could easily bring resistance bands and massage tools from work or her own personal stash, and she was sure Patty would have cans or bottles she could use as weight stand-ins when they needed them.

When she tuned back into the conversation, Patty was giving Erin a tour of the house without actually having her get up, so Holtz took the opportunity to text Abby.

 **Holtzy:** Got Erin to Patty’s in one piece  
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙** **ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ** **:** How’s she doing? **  
Holtzy:** Tired but doing okay **  
Holtzy:** I’ll be coming over to do PT tomorrow **  
Holtzy:** Any more subway news?  
**Abs** **ᕦ** **〳** **⊙** **ڡ** **⊙** **〵** **ᕤ** **:** No. I’ll let you if I hear anything  
**Holtzy:** <3

When Abby did not respond the blonde put her phone away. Patty was talking through the things she had grabbed for Erin from her apartment—laptop, books, a few notebooks, and most importantly, clothes. Holtzmann wandered over to the bookshelves and started looking at their contents, mostly out of something to do to alleviate her boredom.

Then her phone buzzed in her pocket. She checked the caller ID; it was Abby.

“This is Holtz, what’s up?”

_“There’s been an explosion in Hell’s Kitchen.”_

Holtzmann froze; she could feel the eyes of both Patty and Erin on her. “Does it need me?”

 _“It’s your call,”_ Abby said, and Holtz heard her shift. She was listening to the scanner from her computer so she could call Holtz. _“No reported injuries but it’s early.”_

The blonde bit her lip; she wanted more than anything to go, but she could not leave Erin and Patty so suddenly… not to mention all of her gear was almost forty-five minutes away in her apartment. “I don’t have any of my stuff.”

_“Then don’t go.”_

“Then why’d you call me?”

 _“I didn’t know if you’d left yet,”_ Abby said defensively. _“Thought you’d like to know.”_

Holtzmann sighed. “No…but thanks for the call. Let me know what happens.”

_“I will. Talk later.”_

“Bye.” She hung up. Patty and Erin were looking at her curiously. She came up with a lie. “Somebody had to leave early and they wanted to know if I could cover her clients. I don’t have my uniform or anything so I can’t.”

It seemed to work; both of them nodded and returned to their conversation. Holtzmann, itching to go, waited for the opportunity to break free and head for home.

.

.

.

She did not get the opportunity for another hour. By the time she got home, suited up, and flew back across the river and down to the explosion site, it had been crawling with police for several hours. She swooped onto the roof of one of the adjacent buildings and watched the proceedings through a pair of binoculars.

The explosion had gone off in a construction zone of a new luxury high rise set of mixed use apartments. Someone had broken into the construction zone and planted an explosive device on a pillar. It had created a very noisy blast but had done little damage, besides from dislodging a bunch of plywood.

The police thought it was firecrackers, the work of kids up to no good. Holtzmann would have concurred had it not been for the numbers sprayed in construction orange spray paint nearby the blast site.

S#26435

The blonde’s blood ran cold. As quickly as she could she backed away from the building edge. She looked around; there was nobody there. She ran for the opposite side of building, launched herself off it and flew hard for home. Her heart did not calm down until she had gotten home and locked all four of the deadbolts on her apartment door. Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she typed in a message she had long ago memorized, in case of direst emergency.

 **Holtzy:** Motion to fly.

She did not wait to get an answer; she ran for her bag, the special one she had sewn together many years, and started stuffing things in it. Energy bars, all of her important (if mostly fake) documents, her secret stash of cash.

Her phone went off. It was Abby. She grabbed it.

_“Goddamit, Holtzmann, you can’t use the code with no explanation!”_

“Someone’s made me I have to leave,” the blonde said quickly as she continued to shove things in her bag.

 _“I gathered that but_ why _do you think that?”_ Rustling noise cut into the connection as Abby shifted the phone. “ _Holtzmann, what’s going on?”_

“Someone tagged the explosion in Hell’s Kitchen with my Sanctuary serial number.” There was silence from the other end. “…Abby?”

 _“5 th Avenue Diner in Brooklyn,”_ the doctor snapped suddenly. _“I don’t care how you get there, just do. We’ll talk.”_

“Abby I don’t have time, I have to—”

_“We’re talking before you do something stupid. I’ll pay.”_

Holtzmann paused. Her stomach growled. Flying always made her hungry and if she was going to be going a long distance without food, she’d want to eat before she left. “…Fine. I’ll see you in thirty.”

_“I’d better.”_

.

.

.

The blonde walked into the diner with her bag, looking for all the world like one of the many backpacking tourists who filled the city. Abby was sitting in a booth on her phone. She had already ordered; coffee, two omelets, and several side plates of bacon, sausage, and pancakes already covered the table.

“You want to explain what exactly is going on?” the doctor asked as Holtzmann slid into the booth opposite her. Abby had let her have the side facing the door so she could watch people come in and out. She knew her too well.

Holtzmann pulled the plate with her omelet across the table and picked up a fork. “I told you what was going on.”

“I think you’re jumping to a very large conclusion,” Abby said archly over her coffee.

“Because the seven digits that reined my life for sixteen years of my life just _happen_ to show up at the scene of a nondestructive but very loud explosion in Hell’s Kitchen, in the exact same order that they are tattooed on my inner thigh?” Holtzmann asked angrily, although in lower tones than she normally would have used.

“First of all, you have no idea what construction codes are what. Second of all, in this city, weirder shit has happened. Third, have there been any signs other than that that someone has made you?”

“Well—“

“No break-ins? No tails? No people snooping where they don’t belong?”

“No.”

“And you’re more paranoid than most so I know you’d recognize if something was up.”

“But what if someone _did_ and _knows who I am_?” Holtzmann asked desperately. “Lucifer isn’t exactly top secret, someone might have gotten curious.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Are you telling me some rando found out about a top-secret facility in the middle of the desert that even the spookiest spooks from the NSA don’t know?”

Holtz gave Abby a look. “Weirder shit has happened.”

“Hey, look, you don’t get to feed my own lines back at me; that isn’t how this works.” Abby speared a piece of sausage with her fork and used it to gesture pointedly at the blonde before popping it in her mouth. After she swallowed she said, “You’ve got nothing to prove somebody has made you besides the fact that you’ve been running from Sanctuary for half your life. Which isn’t wrong, you’re totally allowed to be paranoid, but you’re not alone now. You’ve got me… and Erin, and Patty.”

“They don’t know about Sanctuary,” Holtzmann hissed. “They don’t know about any of it!”

Abby sighed. “Then you’ve got me. The point is, Holtzmann, is that you don’t have to run and hide every time you get spooked by wind in the leaves.”

The blonde was silent.

“I’m not letting you run off on absolutely no evidence besides the stuff your paranoia tells you, Holtz. That’s bad science.” Abby reached for a piece of bacon. “You can sleep on my couch tonight if you think someone has made your apartment, okay? If somebody is really after you, it will take them a while to trace you to me. Go to work tomorrow, spend time with Erin and Patty uptown, and we’ll reevaluate after twenty-four hours.”

“I still don’t like it,” Holtz mumbled petulantly as Abby ate her piece of bacon. “I’ve known you for too long. If Sanctuary has been tracking my movement—“

“Then they know about me, fine. But Erin and Patty are new parts of the equation, and you’ve only been at that new PT place for a few months, so statistically you’ll be safe there.” Abby reached for another piece of sausage. “Now you must be exhausted from flying. Eat.”

“Aye aye, captain…”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a few days early but I thought everyone would enjoy regardless. Content warning for the after affects of a violent act. Happy Friday!

“Are you okay?” Erin said the next day as Holtzmann was helping her come out of a stretch. “You’re really quiet.”

“Peachy keen, jelly bean,” Holtz replied, forcing joviality. “Just had a long night.”

“You’ve been having a lot of those recently.”

Yes, Holtzmann thought, she had been. It went with the territory. The night before had been especially long—after her late night rendezvous with Abby, the blonde had gone home to set a few traps in case someone tried to break in. Nothing suitably nasty, just enough to dissuade any would-be snoops. She hoped when she returned there would be no trips.

She had taken Abby’s offer and spent the night at her apartment. Spent the night was a loose term—although Abby had set her up on the couch with a blanket and pillow, like old times, Holtzmann had not slept. Instead she spent the dwindling hours until dawn on the couch next to the window, ready to flee at any moment. She had one earbud in, listening to the police scanner app on her phone while she listened for the telltale signs of jackboots in the hallway.

But there had been no jackboots. The police arrested some vandals near the construction site. Nobody had come for her. And when she went to work, there was no sign of any tampering with her locker, or anything at work that made it seem like someone was hunting her.

Maybe Abby had been right—maybe she had blown something small out of proportion.

Holtz?”

Erin’s concerned voice cut through her fog. She startled the rest of the way out of it. “What?”

“You zoned out,” the redhead said, obviously still worried about her.

“Oh. Sorry. Give me a sec.” The blonde went to her bag and dug around until she found the Monster she had stashed there earlier. She popped it open and took a several large gulps.

Erin watched with a raised eyebrow. “You’re a physical therapist and you drink that crap?”

“I stopped denying myself life’s little pleasures a long time ago.” Holtz went and set the can down on a nearby table, then shook herself out and rolled her neck. It helped her feel a little more awake, and soon the caffeine would kick start her for a little bit. “Okay, good. Cool. Right.” She turned to Erin. “Ready to stretch out that calf again?”

The physicist made a face; it was her least favorite PT exercise to do because the muscle was almost always sore from the trauma of being impaled.  Not to mention the newly healed skin was sensitive to the touch.

“C’mon, Er. You did all the chair and strap work so it’s this and then the upper body work. And then I’ll treat you to the cool down massage. We’ll see if I do it better then Kevin, eh?”

Erin huffed. “Fine. Let’s just get it over with. I want the rolly balls of magic.”

Holtzmann laughed then settled down on the floor again with Erin. “Massage balls it is. C’mon, gimmie that foot again so we can, as you say, _get this over with_.”

-/-

Despite whatever the construction site thing had been, Holtzmann kept going on patrol. Abby had said that she had overheard an officer speaking of a rumor of something going down in the subway over Halloween. The NYPD was on high alert and Holtzmann had a score to settle; not only had the N-train derailment skyrocketed her into the national spotlight, and therefore under national scrutiny, she wanted whoever had hurt Erin to pay. She did not care if another public appearance made someone more interested in her background—she wanted closure.

Nothing came on Halloween, but three days later, an explosion rocked the Upper East Side near midnight. Holtz had been circling over the elevated tracks in Brooklyn when it happened. She called Abby as she flew towards the site of the explosion.

 “There’s been another subway attack.”

 _“Oh fuck,”_ Abby said, sounding sleepy but relatively conscious. The explosion must have woken her up. _“Is that what that noise was?”_

“Yeah.” Holtzmann landed gently atop a building above the Hunter College stop at 68th street. Smoke was pouring out of the station entrance; as she watched, people began to stagger out.

“Subway asshole is at it again. 4 train, Hunter College at 68th. Looks like they bombed the platform.”

_“Multiple causalities?”_

“Looks like.”

_“Got it. I’m calling it in.”_

Holtzmann wondered if that was wise; Abby called in all of her Lucifer calls. How long until someone started sniffing around in the doctor’s life? She did not have time to think about it—she could see people bleeding under the glow of the city.

“I’m going in, Abs.”

_“Be careful.”_

“Roger. I’ll call you when I’m out.” She ended the call and started the GoPro she had attached to her shoulder since the construction incident. She wanted to be able to go over every detail with a fine tooth comb later. She jumped from the edge of the building and used her wings to temper her landing speed.

Victims of the attack openly gawked as she landed, whisper quiet. Holtz addressed the nearest one. “What happened?”

“We were waiting for a train and there was a loud boom,” someone said.

“It came from near the tunnel entrance,” said another.

“Please, Lucifer—can’t you stop these guys?”

That broke the blonde’s heart. “I’m trying my best.” She turned to the closet person who was mobile and did not appear to be bleeding or broken; a business woman of some kind, obviously going home late. She still clutched her leather briefcase. “I’m sure someone has called 9-1-1. Start to triage people. Minor scrapes and bumps in one group.  Bleeding and broke bones in another, and anyone who looks to be dead, dying, or bleeding out in a third. When first responders get here, point them to the most severely injured first. Be careful of everyone’s necks.”

The woman nodded, dazed.

Holtzmann turned to another mostly uninjured person, a young man comforting his boyfriend. “I’m going down. Tell them I’m down there.”

The two boys nodded. Satisfied with her delegation, the blonde ran for the subway station. People were filtering up the stairs still, but most of them parted instantly as she passed. The station was smoky and visibility was poor, but Holtzmann’s lungs had been bioengineered to filter toxins and pump oxygen through her body to feed her wings. The acrid smoke burned her eyes a bit, but otherwise did not trouble her.

She vaulted over the turnstiles, then looked around—there were several people, clothing pressed to their mouths, clustered around the mouth of the tunnel. Holtz ran over. There were three or four people who looked like they had suffered the worst of the blast and were immobile. Holtzmann swallowed bile as her brain suddenly flashed back very vividly to the blood, glass, and destruction that had come with the N train derailment. She surprised a dry heave.

“Lucifer!”

“Hey,” Holtzmann tried. It did not sound super-heroic, but at the moment she was not exactly feeling it.

“Can you fly this guy?” someone asked, pointing to someone on the ground. “He’s the only one with a pulse.”

Holtzmann looked at the victim in question. The man was peppered with bits of exploded subway tile, and part of his arm looked beyond saving. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Yes. Tourniquet that arm – use someone’s belt and twist a piece of rebar or a metal pen in it to get good pressure - and support his neck. Something stiff on either side, roll up magazines if you have to. I’m going to check the tunnel. Shout when you’re done.”

As they scrambled to do what she said, Holtzmann grabbed the flashlight off her belt and set off into the tunnel. The person above ground had been right—the explosion had happened just inside the tunnel and the force of the explosion had carried out into the platform. The tracks were a mangled wreck and a fire had started. Holtz ran back out of the tunnel, grabbed the station fire extinguisher and took it back. As she doused the flames in fire retardant foam, she suddenly realized there could be more devices. She ran down the length of the tracks looking, carefully avoiding the third rail, but saw nothing.

“Lucifer!”

The superhero ran out. The group of Samaritans had been joined by several police officers.

“What the hell is going on?” one of them asked her.

“I don’t know but it’s starting to piss me off.” Holtz looked down at the mangled man she was supposed to carry. The Samaritans had managed a tourniquet but had come up with no good way to support his neck. Abby would kill her if she transported him like this. “Do you have EMS on the way?”

“Should be here in under five.”

“Support this guy’s neck for me. I’m going to carry him up for triage.”

Thankfully the officer did not argue. He knelt down and together they carefully took the injured man step by step out of the station. They were joined on the stairs out by an EMT. Holtz set him down carefully on a gurney by a waiting ambulance. Once he was under the care of EMS, the therapist stepped over to see what help she could render to the walking wounded. As she walked to where her new best friend the business woman had sent all the people with scrapes, bumps, bruises, and possible broken things, she scanned the area. A crowd had started to form on the other side of the emergency vehicles. Holtz could see the glint of camera lenses and phone cases pointed in her direction, undoubtedly filming her every move.

“Don’t they have something better to do?” she asked a passing police officer who was going to shoo them away. His glance her way spoke volumes.

“Lucifer?” someone asked. Holtz turned; the boyfriends had approached her. “There’s a little girl who bumped her head and got separated from her mom. She could use a superhero while we try to find what happened to her mom.”

“Lead the way.”

As she bounced the girl on her knee and let her play with her feathers, Holtzmann settled in for another very long night.

-/-

“Girl, you look dead on your feet,” was Patty’s comment as she opened the door.

Holtzmann grimaced. “You don’t look much better.”

It was true—Patty didn’t. The officer, who was still in her uniform, looked exhausted. It was a mark of how tired she was that she just rolled her eyes and let Holtz in without so much as a quip in return.

Holtzmann stepped inside and dropped her bag, then began to unlace her boots. “Long night?”

“Baby, you have no idea.”

Holtzmann thought she did. “I thought you were 33rd precinct, not 13th?”

“Yeah, but the NYPD had to accompany the MTA into the tunnels to check for more explosives in the tunnels. Double time to try to open the tracks ASAP.”

“They’re still closed.” Holtz knew from experience—she had had to walk across the bridge from Long Island City to her job in midtown that morning, and after work she resigned herself to a Lyft from her PT job to Patty’s townhouse in Sugar Hill. She was not about to walk the six miles, and every citibike in the area had already been rented.

“Don’t I know it, baby. I’m about to head in for another double.”

Holtzmann gave her a salute. “May the odds be ever in your favor.” They started to walk towards the kitchen and living room. “Did you and Erin walk yesterday?”

“To the corner store.”

“And then I took an oxy as soon as I got home,” Erin said from the couch where she was sitting and reading a periodical.

Holtzmann frowned and set down her gym bag full of therapy equipment. The corner store was easily two long blocks away, far longer than Erin should be walking in her condition. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“It was my bad, I encouraged her,” Patty said from the kitchen. “You want coffee, Holtzy?”

The therapist nodded, then turned to Erin. “I know you’re raring to get better and back to Columbia, but if you hurt yourself you’ll set yourself back further.”

Erin sighed. “I know. I was just feeling really good and…got ahead of myself.”

Holtzmann nodded, then leaned down and unzipped her bag. She pulled out a DVD case instead of her usual equipment. “I brought something.”

“…What is that?”

“A movie.”

“Well, yes,” Erin replied somewhat testily. “What is the movie?”

“You said back at the hospital you’d never seen a Marvel movie, so now that you’re lucid I brought the first Captain America movie to pop in while we run through your PT. You know all the stuff already, so it’s just a matter of working through them while we watch.”

The physicist could not help but smile. “Okay. That sounds fun.”

“If you like this one, I have all the others, so I can bring them for the next couple of weeks.”

Patty, from where she was pouring coffee into two mugs, made a disbelieving noise. “You white people and your white boy action movies.”

“Let the record reflect the lesbian did not bring the movie to drool over Chris Evan’s fine posterior but rather to lust after Hayley Atwell’s actual perfection.”

Erin could not help but snort in laughter. Holtzmann grinned at her comedic success. Patty rolled her eyes and brought Holtzmann her mug. “Here’s your coffee, baby. You take it black, right?”

“Like my soul,” the therapist joked, but it fell flat.

“Riiiiight. Well, I’m going to work. You two behave yourselves.” Patty grabbed her keys and jacket off the kitchen island bar stool. “Erin, there’s one of your sad TV dinner things in the fridge.”

“Thank you, Patty,” the redhead said gratefully. “When are you going to be home?”

“It’s a double, so Lord only knows. Noon tomorrow at the earliest, probably more like four or five.”

Holtzmann grimaced into her coffee. She did not envy Patty’s job right now, even though she often worked very similar hours and was going on close to forty-eight hours without sleep.

Erin frowned cutely. “All right. Please be safe.”

“Will do, baby. See you later, you two. No funny business in my living room,” she warned before striding to get her hat.

“We’ll make it messy just for you, Patty!” Holtzmann called after her.

She heard Patty scoff and murmur something before closing the door with a thud. Holtzmann finished her coffee, then grabbed a hardbacked chair from the table in Patty’s dining room.

“Ready to get started?” Holtz asked as she brought it back in and set it in the middle of the floor.

“No,” Erin replied, levering herself off the couch as Holtzmann went to put the DVD in.

“Atta girl,” the blonde said encouragingly as the movie started to play. “Let’s get started.”

.

.

.

Holtz ended up falling asleep at Patty’s.

PT sessions always lasted about an hour, but Holtzmann’s wrap up massages always tended to run long when she was working on Erin. By the time she was done Erin had become invested in Captain America and they had reached Holtz’s favorite part. The therapist settled down on the couch with Erin to watch the remaining thirty minutes—and promptly passed out. 

When the movie ended, Erin tried to shake Holtzmann awake, but to no avail—the therapist was dead to the world. Smiling fondly, Erin covered her gently with a blanket and let her sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos feed the Author Beast! :)


	10. Chapter 10

Holtzmann was going through her GoPro footage. She should have been flying on patrol, but it was sheeting rain. The visibility was nonexistent even on the ground, and even though she had wings, she was not waterproof. She decided to forgo patrol, and instead work on looking through the footage she had shot the night of the subway explosion. She did not know why she had not thought of a GoPro sooner.

She did not know what she was looking for, but any hint might be useful. Who the attacker might have been, why he targeted that subway stop, who the people were that he might have targeted. As she watched through on half speed, she took notes on all the people—perceived age and gender, clothes, expressions, heights and build, and injuries if they had any.

Many of the people were young, but there were a few professionals as well. She wrote down descriptions of everyone from the three dead victims to the professional business woman to whom she had delegated triage. There had been a vast spectrum of people in that subway station the night of the attack, a veritable slice of New York, but in the end, Holtzmann thought, they were all covered in dust and debris.

She watched the video three times to make sure she missed absolutely no detail—it was emotionally exhausting to watch the whole thing. Seeing the terror on everyone’s faces; seeing the blood on the bodies, not to mention on the stairs and walls and floors and turnstiles of the subway. Holtzmann had not really noticed the blood and bits of flesh when she had been there, too focused on helping victims and looking for clues, but now, she was forced to relive it in excruciating detail.

It made her sick. It made her incredibly depressed. It reminded her of the Sanctuary.

Holtzy: I hate looking at this footage  
Holtzy: It’s so painful  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ:  : (  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Have you found anything?  
Holtzy: Not really  
Holtzy: I’ve just learned that several people literally pissed themselves that night  
Holtzy: And if I didn’t already know what charred chunks of flesh looked like, I would now  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ:  So no clues?  
Holtzy: I wish.  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Did you compare the victims with the victims of the crash?  
Holtzy: Not yet.   
Holtzy: I needed a break from all the death  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Try digging for videos on the internet from the crash. There were some that went viral. Maybe they will help you?  
Holtzy: will do.  
Holtzy: Should have thought of the GoPro sooner  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Well now you have it.  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: If you need company, I can come over and we can order Chinese food.  
Holtzy: Thx Abs but I think I want to be alone with the videos and the scanner tonight  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Okay. Text If you need anything.  
Holtzy: I will.

The therapist set her phone aside with a sigh and rubbed her face. Then she grabbed her laptop and spent the next three hours trawling the internet for videos of the N train derailment. Most of the videos were of her, but there were several that showed the actual derailment itself from security footage nearby. Holtzmann had already watched the footage available to the public hundreds of times and had not been able to find anything.

So, mostly, she watched videos from the very beginning of the crash, as people ran towards the wreckage with their phones, or filmed her flight from the car with Erin in her arms. It was sickening to watch and she had to stop several times. She hated this. She hated that she had to do this.

Well, technically, she did not. But she felt like she had a moral obligation to do so.

Finally she could not stand it anymore. She shoved her laptop away and grabbed her overnight bag and keys.

Holtzy: I’m coming over.  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Okay. There will be hot and sour egg drop soup waiting for you when you get here.  
Holtzy: Homemade?  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Benny sure won’t deliver on time, even if you walk will take you 45 minutes.  
Holtzy: lol  
Holtzy: Ur the best, Abs  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: See you soon, Holtz

.

.

.

“I couldn’t look at it anymore,” Holtzmann said lamely as she stood in the door to Abby’s apartment, soaking wet and looking incredibly pathetic.

Abby made sympathetic noises. Despite the fact it was almost midnight she ushered her friend inside. Holtzmann changed into the pajamas that she had brought in her bag (protected from the rain by a plastic bag) and curled up on the couch with a bowl of the soup from Abby’s stove. Her wings stretched out from the slits in her shirt, drying slowly in the warm air of Abby’s apartment. Abby brought her a blanket.

“Thanks for letting me come over…”

Abby came over and sat down. “You don’t have to do this alone, Holtzmann.”

“I know…but you’re busy at the hospital and you already listen to the scanner for me when I’m on patrol. And you made me soup.”

“Soup cures all ails,” the doctor said in a pseudo-wise voice before sobering up. “Seriously, Holtz. If you need me to watch the footage I can. God knows I’m used to the gore.”

“I’m used to it, too, I just…it’s been a long time.” The blonde put down her bowl and rubbed her face.

“I know this is bringing up some heavy shit for you,” Abby said softly. “I know it’s rough. I’ll help however I can.”

“Thanks, Abs.” Holtz wiggled her wings a bit, scrunching her face up in displeasure as a bit of water dripped down on her back. “God I hate the rain.”

“Should I get the blow dryer?” the doctor asked, only half joking. She did manage to lighten the situation though.

“Nah, I’m good. They should be dry soon.”

“Aren’t bird wings waterproof?”

“Real bird wings are. That is, they’re water resistant because of oils from the preen gland. Sanctuary gave me wings but didn’t give me a preen gland, so if I want my wings to be water resistant, I have to apply the right kind of oils. I haven’t done it in a while, so when my shirt got soaked through, so did they.” Holtzmann sighed. “I have the powderdowns but those alone aren’t enough.”

Abby made a thoughtful sort of noise. “I can’t believe after all this time I haven’t asked you about your wings and the rain.”

“Why do you think I stay inside when it gets wet out?” Holtz asked. “I try to stay out of the rain as much as possible. Normally I wear my waterproof leather jacket when it rains but I was so focused on getting out of the house that I forgot to grab it.”

 “You walked all this way in forty degree rain without a jacket?! No wonder you’re shivering!”

Holtzmann shrugged. “You know me, I don’t get sick.”

“You come into _my_ apartment and start to spout that urban myth?” Abby asked, aghast. “I was worried about hypothermia, but okay.”

The blonde rolled her eyes. “My bad, Abby.”

Abby reached over and grabbed her remote with a faux disgusted expression. “I’m ashamed to know you. Drink your soup.”

Holtz rolled her eyes again but reached over and grabbed her bowl, sipping the soup and shaking out her feathers a bit as Abby resumed watching her episode of Gilmore Girls.

-/-

On Holtzmann’s lunch break the next day, she saw a message from Patty in her queue.

Pattycakes (♯▼皿▼) ᕤ: Baby I’m really sorry to ask you but could you pop down to the store for me? I can’t make it because of work and we’re running low on stuff. I’ll Venmo you the money.  
Holtzy: Sure thing : ) I’ll stop by on my way up tonite   
Holtzy: What do you need?  
Holtzy: Does Erin need anything?  
Pattycakes (♯▼皿▼) ᕤ: Eggs, milk, whole wheat bread, uncooked chicken, beansprouts, and paprika.  
Pattycakes (♯▼皿▼) ᕤ: Erin is writing a list.   
Holtzy: What kind of chicken do you want?  
Pattycakes (♯▼皿▼) ᕤ: Legs, sorry.  
Holtzy: Np. Gotcha  
Pattycakes (♯▼皿▼) ᕤ:: Erin wants spinach, purple grapes, eggs, bagels, cream cheese, carrots, pita chips, and hummus.  
Holtzy: Baby or big?  
Pattycakes (♯▼皿▼) ᕤ: Baby.   
Holtzy: Gotcha. I’ll let you know the total when I get it : )

The blonde sighed and returned to the sandwich she had put together slapdash out of Abby’s pantry and refrigerator. She was glad to have friends, but she had never realized that having friends was this involved. She was more than happy to run errands for the overworked Patty and the futon-bound Erin, because it was the right thing to do, but she was tired herself and also had her own work to consider.

Holtzy: Is having 2+ friends always so hard?  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: ???  
Holtzy: Patty asked me to get groceries for her and Erin and I said yes but I didn’t sleep until 3 last night and I have to look at the footage  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Having friends is a lot of work but you also have to take care of yourself.  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Or delegate.   
Holtzy: …  
Holtzy: Can you look at the footage for me tonight and go over my notes?  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Sure : )  


Holtzmann could not help but think Abby was grinning at the fact that Holtzmann had finally relinquished a task to Abby, despite the fact that Abby always complained when Holtz asked her to listen to the scanner. That being said, Abby had also been watching the therapist run herself ragged taking care of Erin, trying to solve the case, and freaking out over the construction site coincidence. Maybe she was just trying to help.

Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: I’ve still got your spare key so I’ll go over and take a look after work.   
Holtzy: <3  
Holtzy: Footage is uploaded to computer, notes on legal pad. I’ve bookmarked all the vids I watched  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Got it. I’ll let you know what I find  
Holtzy: Thanks, Abs.

.

.

.

Due to the fact that the subway was still not running, Holtzmann took a Lyft to the closest C-Town Supermarket in Sugar Hill, bought all of the things Patty and Erin had requested, and then lugged them to Patty’s place. The officer in question was not home, which meant Erin had to answer the door.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Holtz greeted with a grin once the door was finally opened. “Mind scooting so I can set these down?”

“Did you carry those all this way?” Erin asked as she moved and Holtz immediately sped past her towards the kitchen.

“Only three blocks,” the blonde replied over her shoulder before setting everything down on the island with a clang. “Okay, wow. I’m glad I lift.”

Erin giggled and made her way back to the kitchen. “How much do I owe you?”

“Thirty something. Let me check.” Holtzmann found the receipt and quickly did some math. “$33.22.”

“Let me get my purse…”

While Erin fished out cash, Holtzmann texted Patty.

Holtzy: I got the stuff you wanted  
Holtzy: Total for your stuff was $25.56  
Holtzy: Just Venmo me the money : )  
Pattycakes (♯▼皿▼) ᕤ: Thanks, baby.   
Holtzy: Putting the perishables in the fridge. Where do you want the rest?  
Pattycakes (♯▼皿▼) ᕤ: Put it on the counter I’ll put it away tomorrow.  
Holtzy: Will do. : )

“Here’s the money,” Erin said, handing Holtzmann a twenty and three fives. “It’s thirty five but I figured you deserve a delivery charge.”

Holtzmann winked and folded the bills into her wallet.

“Thank you again for coming all this way, and for getting the groceries, especially with the subway still down.”

“Not a problem.”

In truth, Holtzmann actually liked running errands for Erin, and she liked coming over after work and performing one last round of PT for the day in a laid back environment. It helped her destress from the day—and Erin’s company was excellent. Besides, the physicist enjoyed watching the Marvel movies for the first time as much as Holtzmann was enjoying rewatching them…even if she did make lots of physics-based theory about the impossibility of certain events. But Holtz thought it was cute, and incredibly nerdy, so she let it slide.

“What are we watching today?”

“It’s literally awful but I brought Thor because you need to watch it to appreciate just how awful it is. Also it fits into the overall story.”

Erin did not look convinced.

“Also, it is a lot of fun to make fun of.”

“Mmm okay.”

Holtzmann handed Erin the DVD to load, while she stored Patty’s perishable groceries in the refrigerator before going to get the hard backed chair. “Ready to get started?”

Erin nodded.


	11. Chapter 11

Holtzmann’s phone vibrated just as they finished up her session with Erin. She checked her phone as Erin got up…and her heart immediately jumped into her throat.

Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: I think I found something.   
Holtzy: ????  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Come by my apartment when you’re done.  
Holtzy: What do I tell Erin?  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: That I need your help with something, idk, get yourself here Holtzmann.

Erin, who was sitting on the futon, paused the movie when Holtzmann looked up from her phone. “That’s not a good face.”

“Abby needs my help with something,” the blonde said apologetically, getting up and starting to shove all her things in her bag. “I gotta go.”

“What about the movie?” Erin asked, gesturing at the TV.

“You can finish watching it,” Holtz replied, grabbing her coat. “I expect a full report on Monday about all of the scientific improbabilities.”

The physicist looked sad and it tore Holtzmann’s heart to pieces.

“I’m really sorry, Er. I’ll make it up to you on Monday?”

Erin’s eyes narrowed. “How?”

“Ice cream?” Holtz offered up hopefully as she laced up her boots.

Erin paused, then nodded. “Okay. But it better be the good kind.”

“No knock-off brands,” the blonde agreed, zipping up her jacket and swinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

“Be safe!”

“I will,” Holtzmann promised. “Have a good weekend, I’ll see you Monday. Enjoy the movie!”

“Thanks. You, too.”

Holtz smiled and showed herself out. She walked for a mile with her hands shoved in her pockets feeling incredibly guilty about leaving Erin to go do superhero things. But if she did not, who would?

Trying to convince herself that her guilty feelings about Erin were simply because they were becoming good friends, she rented the lone CitiBike from the station she came across, hopped on, and took off across the city for Abby’s apartment.

.

.

.

“What did you find, Abby?” Holtzmann asked as she barged into Abby’s apartment. The doctor was seated on her couch, both her laptop and Holtz’s open and Abby had been taking notes over Holtzmann’s.

“C’mere.”

Holtzmann came. As she sat she noticed Abby had zoomed into two videos—one on Holtzmann’s laptop and one on her own. It was the same person. She got in close, squinting at the screen. “Who the hell is that?”

“I don’t know, but he’s in the background of this video from the N train derailment, and the footage from your GoPro at the station. He was on the stairs coming up as you went down.”

“Son of a bitch.” Holtzmann played the GoPro video again; she recognized the man from her notes. Short, stocky, red hair. “The police don’t have security camera from that part of the station, they were blown.”

“But you have this, and cameras from the places around the N train will probably show him around the scene, if he was lurking around in the background. I’m sure he’ll be on footage.”

Holtzmann could feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She was no longer tired. “I have to go home and get into Lucifer so I can give this to the police.”

“That GoPro was the best decision you ever made,” Abby said as she closed the laptop and packed it back in its travel case.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner. I’m an idiot.”

“No, you just never planned to be a superhero. Now get going!”

Holtzmann did not need to be told twice.

.

.

.

Two hours later, with her new information safely copied onto a flash drive and her Lucifer disguise firmly on, Holtzmann flew to the 33rd. To her surprise, Patty was behind the desk. She almost left—she still had not bought a voice disguiser and she could not speak in front of Patty or she would be found out.

But she did not leave. She trusted Patty.

Patty’s eyes widened as Holtzmann-as-Lucifer stepped into the station. “And here I thought I was finally getting a break. What do you want? Am I your personal delivery service now?”

Holtzmann could not help but grin. She nodded and fished the drive, wiped clean of prints and in a plastic baggy, out of her pocket.

“What the hell is that?”

Holtz shrugged then left it on the desk. She gave her a two-fingered salute, then backed out of the police station and took off.

Patty took the baggy and looked at it. There was nothing special about the flash drive inside. She flipped it open and plugged it in, then opened it. Her eyes immediately widened.

“Oh shit.”

-/-

 _DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN?,_ along with screenshots from Holtzmann’s GoPro, were emblazoned as the headline on every newspaper, and variations thereof were all across the internet, by the next morning.

“I applaud them for their effort, A+, but how do they knows the bomber identifies as a man?”

Holtzmann side-eyed Abby from where there were sitting on her couch, eating Chinese takeout. “Is this the right time for gender politics?”

“It is always time for gender politics.”

Holtzmann sighed and settled back into the couch with her Lo Mein. Even after a decade and a half out of Sanctuary she was still slightly unsure what was socially acceptable and what went ‘too far.’ “I feel like I should be out there looking for him.”

“New Yorkers are scared, pissed, and on high alert. Not even a bloodhound could find fugitive faster. If they see him, he’ll be dogpiled before he can even think to run.”

“I hate not doing anything.”

“I know, Holtz, but the best thing you can do is stay put. The news is lauding you as a hero for discovering the connection. Take what you can get.”

“But they’re blasting the NYPD. I feel bad for Patty…” 

Abby shrugged.  “They’ll get over it.”

-/-

A week passed and despite Abby’s confidence in the average New Yorker, no credible leads came up for the police. Now that there was a suspect with a face behind the N train terrorist attack, Erin was drawn and anxious. She was quiet during their PT sessions, and according to Patty had not been eating.

Holtzmann would have done anything to help assuage her. 

Finally she had enough.

Holtzy: I’m going on patrol. Scanner for me?  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Okay. Be safe.  
Holtzy: Will do. Setting out now.

Holtzmann had been flying for about an hour when she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket. Abby was calling. She set down on a building and answered it.

“What d’ya got, Abs?”

_“Robbery in Chinatown. White man, tall, short brown/blonde hair, white shirt, black pants. He robbed a delivery guy of his cash and then took off running. He’s got a knife.”_

Holtzmann was close to Chinatown, and she had not had time to bust a minor criminal in weeks. It would be a welcome change of pace, especially if she caught the guy. “Why not? I’m out.”

_“Be careful!”_

Holtzman launched herself off the building and headed for the skies above Chinatown. She almost forgot to turn on her GoPro as she went, just in case. She did not have the best eyes, but she could see things moving, especially if they were moving fast.

When she arrived over Chinatown she circled, taking things in. A few bicycle cops had responded to the robbery report Abby had heard over the scanner and were searching in one section so she flew slightly northeast. After a few circles she saw nothing and kept flying.

The light of a phone flashlight briefly flashing upwards caught her attention. She came back around and saw someone in a light colored shirt hiding in an alley. Holtz touched down as quietly as she could above them and looked down. A man matching the suspect’s description was frantically moving things around in a dumpster.

Holtzmann pulled out her phone and pulled her GPS coordinates, then sent them to Abby.

Then she stowed her phone and jumped down, using her wings to slow her descent. The guy, intent in his dumpster diving, did not notice.

“Whatcha looking for there, buddy?”

The guy startled and turned around, smacking his head on the dumpster lid in the process. Holtzmann barely withheld a snicker. They guy stared at her, open mouthed, a small plastic bag in his hand.

“Put down the bag so the poor delivery guy you robbed can eat tonight.”

The guy looked frantically between Holtzmann-as-Lucifer and the end of the alley.

“Please don’t run, I don’t want to have to chase you.” The guy took off down the alley, dropping the bag behind him as he went. “And we’re running. Fine.”

Holtzmann sighed, folded her wings, and ran after him. She had not gone on her morning run in quite some time, but years of Sanctuary training had not been for naught. She quickly overpowered him and tackled him to the ground.

“Running from the scene of the crime is for dudes,” she said after a brief struggle, in which she pinned him to the ground. She found the pair of handcuffs she kept in her fanny pack and slapped then on his wrists. “C’mon. There’s a set of bike coppers with your name on ‘em.”

“That bag wasn’t mine!” the guy protested as he was hauled to his feet by the superhero. “I was holding it for a friend.”

“Sure you were, dude. Even I watch enough TV to know that’s the lamest excuse in the book. C’mon, let’s go.”

“Are you even allowed to arrest me? Why do you have handcuffs?”

“It’s called a citizen’s arrest and it’s because occasionally they come in useful for a person of my heroic occupation.” Holtzmann frog marched the guy to a main street, where there was a police cruiser parked on the corner. “Oh, look, even better. You’ll have central air.”

As she approached, the cops in the car got out.

“Hey there. I believe this is the droid you were looking for?”

After some brief back and forth, in which the cops confirmed the suspect description, they took him off her hands. One of them got the details from Holtzmann while the other removed her handcuffs to return to her.

“What station are you guys, I’ll drop the GoPro footage by later tonight?”

“5th.”

“Gotcha. You’ll have the footage by the time the night is out. Good working with you,” she said quickly, then took to the skies before they could ask her any searching questions. Most of the cops she had dealt with were usually pretty respectful and dealt with her as any other good Samaritan, just one with wings and a mask, but she decided not to leave it to chance and cut ties with the cops as soon as she was able.

Her phone buzzed as she flew over Times Square. She settled atop the Marriot Marquis and checked her phone.

Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Heard on the scanner you got the guy. You okay?  
Holtzy: Not a scratch!  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Are you headed back?  
Holtzy: Nope.   
Holtzy: Gonna do a bit more flying before I come in. Barely got to stretch the wings.   
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Okay. Do you need me on the scanner?  
Holtzy: *shrug*   
Holtzy: Whatever you feel like, Abs   
Holtzy: I’m taking off, ttyl

And off she went.

.

.

.

The rest of the night was quiet. Holtzmann went home, downloaded the GoPro video and copied it into a burner USB, then quickly wiped the USB for prints and headed back over the river to Chinatown. The cops at the 5th precinct looked surprised when she walked in the door.

“The footage from the delivery guy burglary,” she said, tossing it at the person behind the counter.

“Can we get a picture?” one of the cops asked quickly. Holtzmann paused in surprise.

“Sure, as long as you don’t arrest me.”

The reception-cop quickly snapped a picture of Holtzmann with the two cops whom Lucifer had passed the robber off to.

“Can we post it online?” one of them asked.

“Go for it.” She gave them a little salute. “Gotta jet, folks. See you ‘round.”

“Thanks, Lucifer!”

“Don’t mention it.” She headed for the door and she could hear a cellphone shutter sound go off as she took off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient. I did the count out and I have just enough chapters prewritten of this fic to last us all the way through the semester, which means no giant long gaps of no new content for you. Huzzah!
> 
> If you enjoyed this chapter, give me a comment and let me know. :) See you in two weeks!


	12. Chapter 12

The weekend produced no leads in the case, for either the police or Holtzmann. The blonde had already resigned herself to more waiting, but she decided to enjoy the wait as much as possible. On her way to work on Monday, Holtz texted Erin.

Holtzy: Favorite kind of soda?  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : ?  
Holtzy: Pick or I’ll pick for you lol  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : Fresca.  
Holtzy: Ooh tough choice!  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : What are you up to, Holtz?  
Holtzy: You’ll see when I get there : )

The subway were running again, so after work Holtzmann hopped on the subway, picked up her ingredients, and then hoofed it over to Patty’s townhouse. Patty opened the door.

“Girl, that’s the face of someone up to no good. What have you got goin’ on in that crazy head of yours?”

Holtz wiggled the canvas bag of treats from the corner store, and then slipped past the police officer and into the house. “Magic, Pattycakes, magic.”

“Is magic going to mess up my kitchen?”

“Shouldn’t,” the blonde said brightly, walking into the kitchen. “Hey, Erin.”

“Hi, Holtz.” Erin watched as Holtzmann stuffed the bag into Patty’s freezer. “Is that your apology for leaving me hanging in the middle of the movie?”

“Yes,” Holtzmann allowed, then added, “for after PT only. In case the promise of watching Gwyneth Paltrow be an HBIC for two hours is not enough.”

Erin frowned in a way that endeared her to Holtzmann forever. “I thought Robert Downey Jr. played Iron Man?”

“He does, but Pepper Potts is the real showstopper. Smart, sexy, _and_ competent? Sign me up.” Holtz winked at Erin and then dug in her gym bag for the DVD.

Patty watched this entire exchange from the doorway to the kitchen, with the look of a long suffering third-wheeler. “Patty is going to nap before work while y’all do whatever it is you two do. Do you mind keeping it down?”

Holtzmann flipped her a double thumbs-up before moving to set up her equipment. Erin, who was flushed bright red, went to put in the DVD. Patty, rolling her eyes and mumbling fondly about blind idiots, turned around and headed for the stairs.

.

.

.

After Erin’s therapy session and massage, when the physicist was little more than Jello on the floor, Holtzmann got up and rummaged through Patty’s cabinets.

“What are you doing?” Erin asked, watching her from her prone position on the floor.

“A thing,” the blonde replied unhelpfully, taking the glasses she had procured and setting them on the counter before fetching spoons. “No peeking, keep watching the movie.”

Erin huffed and sat up, then hauled herself up onto the futon. She was becoming more mobile; she could walk a full block without needing to stop, but getting up still hurt, and PT was still grueling as Holtzmann slowly adjusted her exercises to match her recovery level. She was happy to sit and let herself relax.

Five minutes after Holtzmann started tinkering in the kitchen, she came over with the two glasses. The physicist’s eyes widened. “You made floats!”

“Was hard to find something for you since Fresca’s all citrus-y. Hope you like sorbet,” the blonde said hesitantly, holding out the drink to her. “It’s grapefruit.”

“Thank you,” Erin said softly, taking the cold glass from her. Holtzmann sat down beside her and pulled her legs up to sit criss-cross. Erin gestured at Holtzmann’s glass, which contained a dark liquid instead of the whitish concoction in her own. “What’s yours?”

“A classic. Root beer and vanilla.” The blonde held out her spoon, dripping with softened vanilla ice cream, and winked. “Want some?”

“What? Oh, no, I’m fine. This is fine. Thank you very much.” Erin dug into the fizzy sorbet with her spoon and took a bite. The sorbet was excellent; Holtzmann had not cut corners.  “I wasn’t expecting this?”

“What were you expecting?”

“More Indian food?” the red-head said hesitantly. Holtzmann laughed. “I didn’t really know what to expect!”

The therapist smiled and ate another spoonful of ice cream, then turned back to the movie. Erin did as well—or she tried to. She could not help but watch Holtzmann watch the movie, how her fingers clenched around her nearly empty glass as the climactic scene went down. How she relaxed when the credits began to roll, then how her throat moved when she drained the rest of her glass.

“Do you want more?” Holtzmann asked, nodding at Erin’s empty glass. “Or should we wait and have another next time?”

“Oh,” Erin said awkwardly, looking down at the glass. In watching Holtzmann watch the movie, she had barely touched it. The physicist tried to cover up her own staring by practically vacuuming down the Fresca/sorbet float. “I’m good for tonight.”

“Okay. I’ll clean up for Patty, then.” Holtz stood and took her glass, then went off to the kitchen to wash the dishes and put everything away. Erin watched her, wondering at what point she had started seeing Holtzmann as something more than a friend.

-/-

Ever since Erin had been discharged from the hospital, Doctor Abigail Yates had thought it a bit quiet. Of course, it was never really quiet, working at a hospital, but ever since the particle physicist in Room #1650 had gone home her ward had felt a little bit empty. A new patient had moved in to that room, but whenever Abby entered she still expected to see Erin sitting there reading, or talking to Patty, or Holtzmann, or one of her nurses.

It felt a bit ridiculous to the doctor—she had never gotten attached to a patient this way before. In fact, she prided herself on being able to distance herself, despite being quite possibly the most empathetic person on the face of the planet. But as she made her rounds, now, she found herself missing the three women of Room #1650. She missed Patty’s animated (and often exasperated) work stories as she checked Erin’s charts every morning. She missed talking with Erin when it was slow; they had had some great conversations about astrophysics. She also missed, once she knew about it, watching Holtzmann trip over herself to cater to Erin’s every desire. It had been adorable, like watching a puppy follow its new master. She and Patty had shared knowing glances over the bed of an oblivious Erin.

Those moments had been precious. When all four of them had been in the room together, it had been fantastic. All of them had clicked into an instant camaraderie that should have been at odds with their extremely varied backgrounds. Abby had not seen Erin or Patty since Erin had been discharged; the journey uptown for a visit had been almost out of the question. Between the terrorist, the usual everyday traffic of the hospital, and scanner duty for Holtzmann when she had been out on patrol, she had had no time to make a visit. Holtzmann had been providing weekly updates on Erin’s recovery, but those were no substitute for actual presence.

During a lull in traffic, after thinking about it all morning, Abby pulled out her phone and sent a few quick texts.

Abby Yates: We should all get together and catch up sometime soon!  
Holtzy:  i see you all the time, Abs  
Abby Yates: You don’t have to come then :p  
Holtzy: :p  
Abby Yates: Patty, Erin?  
Erin Gilbert: It sounds fun : ) We’ll have to pick somewhere close.  
Abby Yates: Of course.  
Erin Gilbert: Did you have a date in particular?  
Abby Yates: Not really.  
Holtzy:  brunch show or buuuuuussst  
Abby Yates: I take you to a drag queen brunch show one time  
Erin Gilbert: Aren’t most of the drag brunch shows in Midtown?  
Abby Yates: You’re right :/ Too far for you?  
Erin Gilbert: Probably for the next few weeks.  
Abby Yates: I’m sure we’ll think or something. There are plenty of brunch places in NYC. And lunch places.  
Erin Gilbert: Very true. Patty is asleep right now but she’ll probably have suggestions when she wakes up.  
Holtzy:  Brunch plans on hold until we get input from the Tolan?  
Erin Gilbert: Yes.  
Abby Yates: Sounds good.

.

.

.

[30 minutes later]

Erin Gilbert: Can I ask you something?  
Abby Yates: Sure. What’s up? : )  
Erin Gilbert: You’ve known Holtzmann for a long time, right?  
Abby Yates: Yeah. Why?  
Erin Gilbert: She’s said she’s gay but she hasn’t ever mentioned anything about a girlfriend?

Abby started to laugh so hard she almost cried. A few of her coworkers appeared to want to nose in and discover what was so funny, but she waved them away. Still chuckling, she responded.

Abby Yates: She doesn’t have one.  
Erin Gilbert: Oh?  
Abby Yates: She doesn’t really do relationships.  
Erin Gilbert. Oh.

Abby winced. She had not meant to be harsh and crush Erin’s romantic aspirations towards her best friend. She would have to tread carefully, though. Holtzmann was very private, and for good reason.

Abby Yates: I’m guessing you like her?  
Erin Gilbert: It would be a mistake, especially if she doesn’t do relationships.  
Abby Yates: I’m not saying it’s not possible!  
Abby Yates: I’m just saying she doesn’t get close to people easily. She’s got a very thick shell.  
Erin Gilbert: But she’s always been nice and friendly and she flirts like crazy?  
Abby Yates: That’s her defense mechanism

The doctor’s fingers hovered uncertainly over the keyboard. How far could she go?

Abby Yates: She’s had a rough life and it’s taken its toll. It took me years to break past the barriers…but I think you have a good chance of getting past them, too.  
Erin Gilbert: You do?  
Abby Yates: Yup!  
Erin Gilbert: Any advice?  
Abby Yates: Be honest.   
Abby Yates: Also be blunt. Holtzmann is brilliant but sometime she needs to be told things straight up  
Erin Gilbert: I see.  
Abby Yates: I have to go, Erin. Good luck.  
Erin Gilbert: Thanks, Abby.  
Abby Yates: No problem. Let me know how it goes : )

-/-

That night Holtzmann took to the skies, although she spent very little time actually in the air. Instead, she spent the evening hopping between building tops and sitting for an hour or two, watching pedestrians go by underneath her. The night remained quiet.

She settled on the building across from the Shubert theatre, and let herself get lost for a moment in the intricacies of the design work. Someone, once, had spent hours carving the pilaster capitals and design work around the giant banners. Probably even a team of people.

One of the lights in the show sign was out; another was starting to go. It flickered like a tiny heartbeat.

Holtzmann was pulled from her half-reverie by movement in Shubert Alley. A closer look revealed the source: someone was tinkering with the stage door. It was almost two o’clock in the morning and, while New York was the city that never slept, nobody should have been in the alley at that time of night. With a frown, she started her GoPro.

The figure pulled out a can of spray paint from their backpack and started to graffiti the door. Holtzmann watched as a square and a right triangle were added together and filled in. The figure reached for another can in the bag and sprayed a red dot in the center.

The bottom of her stomach dropped out.

They had marked the rough location of The Sanctuary on a shape that was now very clearly Nevada. 

She jumped off the roof, wings snapping open instinctively to slow her fall. The figure was walking towards her side of the street, hands in their pockets. She landed in front of them.

She normally would have opened with a badass line, but she was shaking far too much to do anything but stand in his way, wings extended. The man, for it was a man, froze at her sudden appearance. She must have looked terrifying because his pupils dilated in fear. They stared at each other, at an impasse, before he turned around and booked it back into the alley.

Holtzmann gave chase. Their footfalls were loud against the brick; about three quarters of the way down the alley she put on a burst of speed and tackled him to the ground. He yelled as they fell to the ground in a mess of limbs.

He rolled over and threw a punch—she barely dodged it. He grabbed her and they grappled, each trying to maintain control. He was shorter and obviously less experienced in fighting than she was, but he had the advantage of mass. She kneed him in the groin; it was a dirty trick, but it worked. The man howled in pain, rolling over and clutching his delicate bits. Holtzmann quickly fumbled for her handcuffs.

Adrenaline made him quick to recover; as she reached for his arm he swung at her. She reared back and he scrabbled away, panic in his eyes. She caught his foot and he came crashing down. She got over him and put a knee in his back, slamming his wrists into the pavement. 

“Who the fuck are you?” she growled.

He spat at her and missed.

She scowled and wrenched his arms around to cuff him. Suitably restrained, she pulled him to his feet. “Okay, buster, we’re gonna have a nice long tal—”

She stopped dead. Now that they were no longer in the blur of the fight, she recognized his face. Slightly pudgy, red hair, stocky build.

Her eyes flew to the graffiti. The backpack was still there.

“Shit!”

She barely had time to turn and run when the backpack exploded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.....how are we feeling? Let me know! 
> 
> I hope you're strapped in, because we're just getting started with the excitement :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holtzmann deals with the results of being in an alley when a bomb goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first of all, I want to gush about how Prioris saved my bacon this chapter. All the medical things that occur in this chapter are the direct result of Prioris responding to my "MEDICAL STUFF GOES HERE PRIOIS HELP" and holding my hand through the medical procedures and protocol. All medical words basically belong to her, because god knows I couldn't have technobabbled that if I tried. TL;DR: Prioris is the best EVAH and if you haven't read her stuff, you should. She's an awesome scribbler and a pretty awesome human being in general. 
> 
> Secondly, as stated above, there's some medical stuff in this. Like, living room stitching up of a superhero kind of medical stuff, because the bird human obviously can't go to the normal person hospital! So if living room trauma surveys aren't your jam, you should probably skip this chapter. I totally understand.
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter 13

The explosion ripped through the alley. Holtzmann immediately felt white hot pain in her wings, arm, and legs. She collapsed, the agony momentarily overwhelming her. There was smoke and debris everywhere; she lay on the ground, gritting her teeth.

_Count through the pain. Focus on one spot and count until it’s contained._

By the time she had managed to push through the screaming pain in her legs, cops swarmed the alley. The Times Square station was close by she noted numbly as she forced herself to her knees.

“What the fuck?”

“Is that Lucifer?”

Holtzmann’s hand flew to her mask when she heard the superhero moniker, just in case. The piece of leather was still secure.

She heard the cops calling for a bus—two. Two? One for her and one for—the suspect. She jerked around, looking for the bomber. He had also fallen and was peppered with bits of glass, metal, and brick.

_Good,_ she thought venomously.

“Don’t move,” one of the cops said, but it was gentle instead of a harsh order. He was kneeling at her side. Another one appeared at her elbow and she felt something being pressed to the back of her leg above where the pain was radiating.

“Fuck,” she swore as the pressure made the pain worse.

“Sorry, you got hit by a piece of shrapnel here.”

“How big?” she asked through gritted teeth.

The officer in front of her gave a size estimation; about the size of a cracker. A piece of the bomb casing, no doubt. “We’ve got EMS coming, just hold on.”

_Like hell,_ Holtzmann thought. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath. “Help me stand.”

“Are you—”

“Help. Me. Stand.”

They did. She folded her wings (painfully, they’d been hit with shrapnel, too) and the officers each supported her under a shoulder and lifted her to her feet. She leaned heavily on one of them—she could not put weight on the leg with the shrapnel. She needed to leave—she needed to get to Abby.

She unfolded her battered wings slowly, startling the officers.

“What are you doing? You need medical assistance!”

“Not from you,” the blonde snapped. “Focus on that asshole, he’s the bomber.”

The cops looked startled; they must have assumed she had just found the bomb. She used their distraction to push off with her good leg and beat her wings. It was a rocky takeoff, but she got off the ground. She flew across the city, unsure of where she was going. Her wings burned with the effort; she needed to land. She looked down for a spot and found herself above Abby’s neighborhood.

She had taken herself there instinctively. She glided down; as she landed she remembered the GoPro was still recording. After crumpling to the ground in pain, she reached up to shut it off, then limp-dragged herself over to Abby’s building. She knew there were probably security cameras, but she did not care. She was in too much pain and was starting to feel dizzy from blood loss.

She buzzed her best friend’s apartment. It took several minutes before she got a response; when she did, Abby’s voice was thick with sleep. 

_“Hello?”_

“Abby. I’ve been hit.”

_“Oh my god, Holtzmann?”_

“Let me in and get the kit.”

The door buzzed open without another word. Holtzmann dragged herself into the elevator and looked behind her; despite her injuries she was not tracking blood. Abby was waiting at the door to her apartment, still in her pajamas. Her eyes flew open wide when she saw Holtzmann’s condition.

“What happened?”

“Bomb exploded.”

“Where?” Abby asked as she shepherded Holtzmann into her apartment.

“Shubert Alley,” the blonde replied as she beelined for the drop cloth Abby had laid down on the floor. The coffee table had been pushed out of the way, and a stand lamp had been dragged over to brightly illuminate Abby’s small living room. She collapsed there, stripping off her mask as Abby hauled their emergency medical kit onto the couch. The doctor began to rummage through the kit for supplies. “I can see from here you’ve got a chunk of shrapnel in your left hamstring. Where else?”

“Wings mostly, arms a bit too. Some of it might be alley trash? Also, a shit-ton of incoming muscle pain,” Holtzmann added helpfully. “Pass the ibuprofen, please?”

Abby, from where she was pulling out supplies, glared at her.

Holtzmann made as apologetic a face as she could through the pain. “Not the time, sorry.”

“I’m going to have to cut the suit off,” Abby told her after she had pulled on gloves. “Hope you weren’t too attached to this one.”

The blonde grimaced but nodded. She knew it was a reality and had to be done but she still winced as she heard the shears cut through her jumpsuit. She had a spare jumpsuit but no spare plates—she would have to cannibalize the old ones and resew them into a new jumpsuit.

Holtzmann pulled the zipper down and folded her wings, then Abby gently pulled the suit slits over her wings. The rest of it came off and left Holtzmann shivering in her underwear and modified sports bra.

“Sorry,” Abby apologized, getting up and going for the thermostat. “I’ll go turn the heat up, but the furnace is slow, so you’re just going to have to suck it up for a bit. In the meantime, bra and undies need to come off, too. I’ve got towels for you to cover up with.”

Holtzmann, despite her pain and fatigue, waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “I bet you say that to all the cute patients.”

“I _am_ buying you dinner,” Abby shot back, unable to conceal a snort at Holtz’s antics.

“You are?”

“Yes, later. Now, joking aside, I’d hate to miss a sucking chest wound because of misplaced modesty. Lose the lingerie, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Got it.” Holtzmann started shimmying the bra around her wings, as Abby busied herself with the thermostat. Holtz pulled one of the towels on the couch around herself.

Abby returned several minutes later with a pillow Holtzmann to lean on, and then peeled open a single-use suture pack, using it to make a drape over the couch. On it she placed several syringes, a vial of lidocaine, several needles of various sizes, and tubs of sterile gauze pads. Three cannibalized Tupperware tubs on the floor next to their makeshift operating station: one was filled with dark liquid, one of clear, and the third was empty. If Holtz had to guess, the dark one was an iodine solution, the clear one was saline, and the empty one was to collect the removed shrapnel. She had paid moderate attention at Sanctuary when they had worked on her.

“Lay down please so I can get started,” Abby told her as she continued to unload supplies onto the drape. Holtzmann complied.

With her supplies opened, Abby got up to scrub her hands again then pulled on sterile gloves before setting to work. As she carefully surveyed the expanse of Holtzmann’s bared back and wings, she spoke her exam findings aloud as though to a scribe in the trauma bay. “Multiple lacerations and retained shrapnel injuries, bilateral dorsal wing surfaces… three-centimeter laceration, left dorsal primary covert… two-centimeter lac left posterior arm, multiple retained shrapnel injuries bilateral posterior forearms… retained shrapnel from L2 to S3… five-centimeter lac with retained shrapnel left posterior femoral surface, appears a couple of centimeters into the biceps femoris, need to get a better look and be sure that’s not a deep tendon injury… more retained shrapnel injuries bilateral posterior femoral and sural surfaces.”

“You know they say the first sign of insanity’s talking to yourself,” Holtzmann said, her voice strained as Abby poked and prodded at her wounds.

“Because it’s totally sane that I’m doing a trauma survey in my living room on my best friend, the bird-woman superhero,” Abby replied shortly, picking up a pair of sterile forceps. “I’m going to start pulling the smaller debris. It isn’t gonna tickle, but frankly I’d hurt you worse by trying to numb all these damn little lacs. Plus, we only have one vial of lido and you probably want it for that big bastard in your thigh.”

Holtzmann nodded once, her arms tightening around the pillow. She closed her eyes and tried to find the hazy place she had gone whenever similar things had been done to her at Sanctuary—it did not work very well. She was out of practice. Although she knew Abby was no Sanctuary doctor, she still could not bear to make much of racket as bits and pieces were removed. She hissed once as Abby fished a particularly well-embedded piece of metal out of her left wing, but otherwise remained silent. The only sign of her discomfort was how she repeatedly flexed her toes against the carpet. The room was quiet except for the rasp of her breathing and the rhythmic click of shrapnel falling into the plastic tub Abby had designated as her sharps disposal.

“Last one,” Abby said, after pulling the final piece of debris out of her flesh. “Betadine scrub coming up next. Your wings are probably going to be yellow in spots until you molt the old feathers out.”

“It’s fine,” Holtzmann managed, blinking involuntarily at the sensation of cold antiseptic solution being wiped across her wounds, then forcefully squirted from one of the syringes Abby had prepared to wash away any dirt or gritty debris. She sighed and dropped her head onto the pillow. “What’s going to need stitches?”

“The thigh for sure, but the rest of these are shallow enough I should be able to use liquid suture to close them.”

“Great. Fantastic. Thank God for medical grade super glue,” the therapist joked weakly. The adrenaline was starting to wear off and she was flagging.

Abby noticed her fatigue as she drew lidocaine into another syringe and attached a fine needle. “I’m going to numb this big lac, then close the little guys while the lido kicks in.”

“Is there a needle?” The therapist asked, her voice shaking from something that was not necessarily cold or exhaustion.

“Yes…do you need a second?”

Holtz gritted her teeth. “Just do it.”

“Okay…few little pinches here… and here… relax, Holtz!”

“Sorry.” The blonde forced her leg muscles to relax despite the anxiety clouding her brain.

“One more… there. Done. Nice job.”

Holtzmann let out the breath she was holding and leaned heavily against the pillow. She _hated_ needles.

“Keep talking to me, Holtz. Tell me what happened.”

Holtzmann told her as she worked on closing up the cuts on her arms and wings. “I didn’t think the tagger and the terrorist were related…”

“I didn’t either, and I don’t think the police thought so, either.”

“At least they’ve got the piece of shit now.”

Abby glanced over at the shredded suit; the GoPro was still attached to its shoulder mount. “You need to get that footage to the police ASAP.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Abby made a soft noise and prodded at the tissue around the shrapnel wound gently. “Can you feel that?”

“No.”

“Good. It’s time to take this out. Need something to bite on?”

“No,” Holtzmann said quickly. “Just count me down.”

“Alright. Give me a second.”

Abby made a noise behind her as she moved something out of the way and positioned herself appropriately. “Okay. Ready?”

“Just do it.”

“Okay. One…two….three.”

Even with the local anesthetic, the pain of the shrapnel extraction was excruciating. Holtzmann’s jaw, fists, and toes clenched and she muffled her scream of pain into the pillow. Then it was done, and there was a clatter as the doctor set aside the shrapnel. Holtzmann hid her face in the pillow as Abby made a soothing noise and pressed a sterile gauze pad to the wound; it had started to bleed profusely.

“I’m sorry, Holtz. You okay?”

“Fine,” she managed, voice strained.

Abby hummed. “Talk to me about Erin.”

“Erin?” the blonde asked, startled, peering back at her.

“Yes, Erin. How’s she doing?”

“She’s… doing okay. Her recovery is doing really well.”

“How’s she been liking the movies?”

Holtzmann grinned. “She wasn’t keen on it at first but now she likes to watch them. She’s always critiquing the science and the physics. It’s really cute.”

“To be fair, so am I.”

“True,” Holtzmann allowed, then realized something. “Oh, hell. I have PT with her tomorrow.”

“I don’t think you do,” Abby said, checking on the status of the gash. It had stopped bleeding. “You don’t call me cute when I critique action movie science.”

“Would you like me to?” Holtzmann asked, confused.

The doctor sighed. “No, Holtzmann. Never mind. I have to clean this and it’s going to hurt.”

“Okay.”

Abby cleaned and irrigated the thigh wound liberally with the remains of the iodine and saline solution. Holtzmann whimpered involuntarily.

“Maybe for the next suite we add plates to the back?” The doctor suggested.

“I wasn’t expecting bomb blasts.”

“Live and learn.” Abby grabbed the suture materials. “Stitch time. This shouldn’t hurt as bad.”

“Yay,” the blonde deadpanned. Abby started to stitch the cut together. Once it was all sewn up, she applied medical glue over the whole thing. The glue would act as its own sterile bandage, saving Holtzmann the hassle of shower restrictions and dressing changes.

Abby allowed herself a little self-satisfied smirk as she inspected her work. She rarely got to take her time over a suture job; the task usually wound up delegated to whatever unlucky intern or medical student happened to be nearby and handy. She had done an excellent job stitching the gash up; with a bit of luck, it would barely even scar.

Holtzmann tried to flex her leg and winced. “I’m going to have to call in sick tomorrow. I can’t work like this.”

“You should be glad it’s a Friday. You’ll have the weekend to recover.”

Holtzmann nodded. She healed faster than a normal human, but it would still take her a few days before she could walk normally. “What about you, Abs? Are you going to call off?”

“This is nothing. I got four or so hours of sleep so I should be fine until my shift ends.” Abby tsked as a drop of the glue oozed away from the wound. She carefully scraped the wayward glue away before it could set. “I’ll pick up clothes from your place on my way back, okay? You can stay here.”

Holtzmann nodded, exhausted. Abby finished up and taped gauze over each of the larger wounds.

“This will have to do,” she said, then started to gather the trash and throw it away.

Holtzmann pulled her undergarments back on as the doctor packed up the emergency kit. It was almost five o’clock in the morning. Abby would have to shower and leave for work soon.

“Thanks, Abby.”

“Don’t make it a regular occurrence,” Abby told her sternly.

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. You can sit on the couch, Holtz. I’ll grab you a blanket.” She came back with a blanket, then bustled to the kitchen. She returned with crackers, a jar of peanut butter, a butter knife, two one liter bottles of water (one of which she had added Pedialyte powder to), and a small handful of ibuprofen and antibiotic caplets. She handed all of them to Holtzmann. “Get something in that stomach, then take the meds. And I want you to drink both of those waters before you crash.”

Holtzmann frowned at the first water bottle, which was slowly turning pinkish-red as the powder dissolved. It reminded her of something they made her drink with her meals at Sanctuary. She opened the lid and sniffed it gingerly; it smelled like cherries.

Abby noticed her recalcitrance but did not comment.

 The therapist took a dubious sip; it was sweet, but not disgustingly so, like one of the drinks at Sanctuary. Still, it was close enough to make her want to protest. “No Gatorade?”

 “Wrong kind of sugar and too much of it,” the doctor replied in a firm tone. “I want you rehydrated, not sugared up. This way saves you an IV and a fluid bolus, which is a win-win because you hate needles and I haven’t put in a peripheral line since intern year.”

Holtzmann smiled weakly. She knew Abby was right and had her best interests at heart; she would just have to chug the Pedialyte-infused water.  “Thanks, Abs. You’re the best.”

Abby smiled back. “What are friends for? Now call in to your work before you crash.”

“Could you get my phone? It’s in my fanny pack.”

Abby did so. Holtzmann was relieved to see her phone was undamaged. She called in sick, exhausted enough that it no doubt sounded realistic. She managed a few bites of crackers and peanut butter, downed her meds, and drained the water bottles. However, exhaustion quickly claimed her. She was sound asleep by the time Abby emerged from her bedroom freshly showered and in her scrubs.

The doctor smiled and shook her head fondly at the site of the slumbering superhero. She cooked breakfast, but even that did not wake Holtzmann. Half an hour later, Abby left the remains of breakfast in a Tupperware container for Holtzmann, then grabbed her work bag and slipped from her apartment as quietly as she could.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted this chapter a bit early this week because the next 5 days ares going to be hell and I would probably forget in the midst of three exams and looming midreview. I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you thought :)


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Holtzmann slept most of the day. She woke around four in the afternoon—Abby had not come back yet. She was starving; she sat up and her body erupted in pain. She swore and waited for the worst of it to pass, then gingerly pushed herself to stand. Her left leg was the same as it was earlier—barely able to hold her weight.

She limped to the counter and found two bottles there. One was ibuprofen, the other cephalexin. On top of the cephalexin was a Post-It note; Abby had scrawled instructions for Holtzmann take three painkillers and one antibiotic every six hours. The blonde dry swallowed four pills and then looked around, leaning heavily on the counter. She spotted the Tupperware of breakfast and decided eggs and microwaveable sausage sounded better than peanut butter and crackers. She shuffled to the microwave and threw the Tupperware in.

When the microwave beeped she decided it would be too painful to shuffle back to the couch to eat. So she stood, leaning against the counter, and scarfed overdone eggs and dry sausage in only her sports bra and underwear. Feeling more alive with protein in her stomach, she hobbled into the living room and stretched out her wings. Her muscles screamed in protest, but after she worked them in and out a few times they hurt less.

Her phone rang on the coffee table. She fumbled for it. “Hello?”

 _“Hey there, super trooper.”_ Abby. _“You’re awake. How are you feeling?”_

“Like a bomb went off…” Unamused silence from Abby’s end. “Sorry. Everything hurts so I took the stuff you left and ate.”

_“That’s good. I’ll look at the stitches when I get home.”_

“Are you on your way?”

_“Soon. I just left your place and am going to drop by and pick up Pho, okay?”_

“Okay. When can I take a shower?”

 _“Right away, as long as you don’t crank the water super hot and you don’t soak or scrub the glue. A little soap is okay.”_ Holtzmann groaned. _“Sorry, kiddo, that’s just the way it goes. The glue is the bandage, so if you break it you risk infection.”_

The blonde sighed. “Fine. Can I at least use a washcloth to get the blood off?”

_“Where there isn’t a wound, yes. I’ll be home soon.”_

“Okay. See you soon.”

She hung up the phone and limped into Abby’s bathroom, where she turned the shower on and spent several minutes just leaning into the lukewarm spray, grimacing at the amount of dirt, blood and iodine that swirled murkily down the drain. She did not want to deal with wet wings afterwards, but she had no choice.

When she felt like she could move, she picked up soap and a washcloth and started carefully wiping all of the dried blood off her extremities. It took almost thirty minutes. She tried her best with the wings, but her arm muscles screamed every time she tried to move them to clean the feathers, and even if she had been at a hundred percent flexibility, she could not see her wings to see where the blood was anyway. Water dilution would have to do.

After the shower she wrapped herself in several towels and limped her way out into the living room. Abby came in the door just as Holtzmann was slowly making her way back to the couch. The doctor was carrying a giant paper sack of something that smelled amazing and, most importantly, one of Holtzmann’s reusable grocery bags full of her things. She handed it off to Holtzmann. “Put some clothes on.”

 “Have I mentioned that you’re the best ever?” the blonde asked Abby as she unpacked the bag to find several pairs of her sweatpants, lazy day shirts, and most importantly, clean bras and underwear.

“You could stand to mention it more,” Abby teased good-naturedly as she put the paper bag full of Pho on the counter. “I also brought your laptop, phone charger, and cable for the GoPro. Figured you’re probably staying here this weekend so I thought you’d like to get some work done.”

“I’d kiss you if you wouldn’t kill me,” Holtzmann said with a wink as she picked out her softest pair of joggers and her favorite sleep shirt.

Abby rolled her eyes. “Show me your stitches.”

Holtzmann sprawled out so the doctor could take a look. When she peeled back the gauze the noises she made were positive.

“No sign of infection, which is very good. Hold tight.”

Holtzmann did, and Abby came back with more gauze. Once Holtz was patched back up the blonde excused herself to change while Abby got the Pho out for dinner. By the time Holtz came back, Abby had gotten out bowls and was putting her Pho together accordingly.

“How much do I owe you for dinner?”

“This is my treat for catching the bomber,” Abby replied, smiling over at her. “Good job, bird brain.”

“Thanks, Abs.”

“Do you need help carrying your bowl over to the couch?”

“Wouldn’t mind.”

Abby helped her bring her bowl of Pho and a glass of milk over, then went back to get her own. Abby grabbed the remote as Holtz, despite having eaten an hour previously, started to dig in. Her metabolism had kicked into high gear to start to repair the damage, which meant she needed sustenance.

“Have you watched the news?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s not the best.”

Holtzmann grimaced. “How bad?”

“Since you were injured and fled the scene, the media figureheads have been wondering if you had something to do with it.”

“Of course they did,” the blonde said bitterly.

“You’ve got to get that GoPro footage in ASAP. Maybe make a statement, too.”

“Maybe.”

Holtzmann was spared from any further discussion of their next move by her phone ringing. She reached for it, saw the time, and swore.

“What?”

“It’s Erin. I forgot to call her.” Abby made a face. The phone kept ringing. Holtzmann gingerly picked up the phone and answered. “Hello?”

 _“Holtzmann?”_ Erin asked worriedly. _“It’s almost seven and you’re not here. Are you running late?”_

“I, uh—” The blonde made a freaked out silent scream face in Abby’s direction. The doctor shrugged and made a face back, and then returned to her noodles, indicating Holtz would have to deal with this particular part of her mess on her own. “Erin, hey.”

_“Are you okay? You sound exhausted.”_

Holtzmann dragged a hand across her face. “I totally forgot to call you. It think I got the flu from someone at work.”

_“Oh no!”_

“I woke up super fucked up and went right back to sleep. I just woke up…”

_“Did I wake you up?”_

“Kinda…” the blonde lied. Erin made a distressed noise. “The tl;dr is that I’m sick as a dog and can’t make it today. I’m sorry.”

 _“Okay.”_ Erin sounded disappointed. Holtzmann cringed. _“You’ve had a rough couple weeks, it must be your immune system’s way of telling you to take a break.”_

“Haha… yeah.”

_“Feel better. Rest up and drink lots of fluids. Let me know about Monday, okay?”_

“Will do.”

_“Bye, Holtz.”_

“’Bye.” She hung up the phone and looked at Abby, who was giving her a look that was probably meant to be significant. “What?”

“You’re cute,” was all Abby said before returning to her Pho.

Holtzmann frowned in confusion. What had she done that was cute? She voiced the question to Abby.

“Just the way you act with Erin,” the doctor said. When Holtzmann still looked bemused, she elaborated. “It’s clear you’ve got a crush on her, Holtzmann.”

“I—what?” The blonde sputtered, fumbling with her bowl. “I—Erin?”

“I see no other particle physicist that you’ve been flirting with madly for the past few months.”

“I don’t—” Holtzmann stopped talking and actually considered what Abby had to say. Her knowledge of love and romance had come mostly from the internet, a vast consumption of various media outlets, and much trial and error (mostly error) in college. While she had never slept with someone before – the whole winged humanoid thing made sexual intimacy a bit complicated – she had realized her attraction for women early on. But a real, honest-to-God crush had never materialized…perhaps because she had not let it.

Abby watched with amusement as the gears turn in the therapist’s head.

“I thought when you got a crush you got butterflies in your stomach and were embarrassed around the other person?”

“You’ve watched too many movies,” the doctor said plainly. “Sometimes having a crush is the willingness to do anything for a person and going out of your way for them.”

“Oh…” Holtz looked down at her bowl. “What do I do?”

“That I can’t help you with,” Abby replied. “If I tell you what to do it, you’ll do it because I told you, and it won’t be you doing it. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah.” Holtzmann considered it. “Do you think she likes me back?”

Abby thought back to her text exchange with Erin and smiled. “I think so.”

The blonde’s wings rustled underneath her sleep shirt. She was biting her lip and staring into her Pho as if it held the secrets to the universe. Finally, “I’ll think about it. I’ve got time now to…y’know. Plan.”

The doctor inclined her head, then returned to her dinner, leaving Holtzmann uncharacteristically thoughtful for the rest of the evening.

-/-

“The real question is how did he know about Sanctuary?” Holtzmann asked the next evening as she was watching over the GoPro footage so she could edit it. It was a question that had been bugging her since the evening before.

Abby looked thoughtful from where she was cooking. “Was he someone from Sanctuary?”

Holtzmann looked the still-framed image of the bomber, whom the police, the media said, had identified as Rowan North. She shook her head. “I never saw him. He might not have worked in my unit.”

“But then how did he know your identification number?”

The blonde groaned. “I don’t _know,_ Abby! There was a lot of Sanctuary that I was not privy to.”

“No need to snap,” Abby said calmly. “The name just seems very, you know, alias-y to me.”

Holtzmann thought back on her own name—Jillian Holtzmann sounded a bit strange, but nowhere near as strange as the name the cartel had given her to masquerade with during college. “Maybe it is an alias. I don’t know. If he was assigned to me, he was probably background, which means I never saw him. I only knew one name at Sanctuary.”

“I know. Dr. Gorin.”

The blonde stopped for a moment, letting herself remember the scientist who had looked over her growth, training, operations, health, and eventual escape. She pressed her lips together and forced herself to shut the memories down. They were too painful.

She moved on. “If he did work for Sanctuary, what goal did he have to out me and the place? And why was he doing it so vaguely? Why not just publish information about Sanctuary on the web?”

“Lots of crazy people talk to themselves and other crazy people on the internet,” Abby replied. “Maybe the train attacks were to get the public’s attention, so that they would lash out at Sanctuary when he dropped the information?”

Holtzmann chewed on her lip. “Maybe.” With a sigh, she finished cropping the video, then saved it to one of her burner thumb drives.  “How do I get this to the police?”

“I can take it.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the blonde replied. “You’ve already called in too many of my calls. I don’t want the police to start looking at you to try to figure out who I am.”

“We can pop it in the mail?”

“That would take too long.” Holtzmann ran a hand through her hair. “I can’t take it yet, especially not without a functional suit.”

Abby thought about it. “I could put it in with an information transfer. Some of the stuff we collect has to go to the police so when they come ‘round to collect evidence or lab work I could sneak it in there.”

“It would still be connected with your hospital, though. Also that would risk it being sent to deep storage.”

The doctor sighed. “We’ll think of something.”

.

.

.

They ended up paying a homeless woman to take the flash drive in to the local precinct. Abby lurked to make sure the drop went successfully, then gave the woman a fifty dollar bill for her troubles. The next morning the footage was on the news.

“Welcome to your Sunday brunch,” Abby said as she was frying eggs.

“None of the Sanctuary stuff has come up on the news,” Holtzmann said as she watched the news reports with the sound off and subtitles on. “Which means they haven’t made the connection or he hasn’t told them yet.”

“He’s confessed to the train attacks and the bombings,” Abby replied. “Have you looked for a connection between the graffiti and the previous attacks?”

“I didn’t see anything in the tunnel when I was down there last week… and I didn’t see anything when I was at the above ground incidents, but then again I was not really looking for it.”

“And you don’t have any good footage besides what was online.”

Holtzmann sighed. “No.”

Abby slid the eggs onto toast and brought the plates over to the couch. “If the cops find out about Sanctuary…”

“It won’t be good,” the blonde replied. “They’ll hunt everyone who ever worked there down, and I’m sure the experiments still stuck there will be tortured or killed, either by the scientists before they leave or by the government when they find it.”

Abby looked uncharacteristically grave. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Holtzmann was back to work by Wednesday, thanks to her superhuman healing. She was stiff, but her leg had healed up enough she could walk on it. The good thing about having a doctor for a best friend, she thought as she pulled her company shirt out of her locker, was that she could get a sick note at any time.

After work she rode the subway up to Sugar Hill. Patty grinned and wrapped her up in a hug as soon as she saw her. “Glad to see you’re doin’ better, baby! Had us worried there for a bit.”

“Just shows me that Abby was right and I should have gotten a flu shot,” Holtzmann replied.

“Jeez you have bony shoulder blades,” Patty commented.

The blonde froze. Patty must have felt her wings through her jacket. She swallowed and forced out, “I lost weight from all the puking.”

The officer made a face. “Say no more, boo. You good now though, right?”

“Yeah,” Holtz managed as she kicked off her shoes. “Not contagious anymore.”

“Good. The last thing I need is to get sick.”

The blonde smiled and then padded into the living room. “Hey, Erin.”

“Holtz!” Erin smiled and stood up, then made her way over and gave her a gentle hug. The therapist stood stock still, her wings pressed close to her body and hoping fervently that her down vest would be enough to hide them. It apparently was; Erin made no comment. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah. How are you doing?”

“Okay. I did what I could without you.”

“That’s my girl!” Holtzmann said cheerfully. “Are you ready to get started?”

Erin nodded. “What movie today?”

“ _Guardians of the Galaxy_ all right with you?”

“Sounds great.”

.

.

.

Afterward, when the credits were rolling, Holtzmann got up and started to pack. Erin watched her, worrying her bottom lip.

“Can I ask you something?”

Erin was surprised. That was going to be her line. “What is it?”

Holtzmann fussed with the strap of her bag. “You’re healing fine, right on target, which is great but… how are you doing with… the Rowan stuff? How is that going?”

Erin was shocked; she very rarely talked about the nightmares where she woke up sweaty and scared. Ever since the news had started broadcasting the face of the terrorist, it had entered her dreams, too. How had Holtzmann known? “It’s…been…”

“Rough?” Holtzmann asked.

“Yeah.”

The blonde sat down beside her, wringing her hands as though from nerves. “Do you…want to talk about it?”

“Oh. Um.” Erin wiggled her fingers a bit to dispel the sudden anxiety she was feeling. Not because Holtzmann wanted to help, but because of what she wanted to help with. “It’s… on Friday when they said they had got him. It was a lot.”

Holtz nodded.

Faced with such a willing audience, Erin found herself rambling a bit. “It was hard to see the face, but to put the name to the face and know that a janitor started all this for whatever his reason… it’s a lot and it’s a bit overwhelming but I’m trying to... you know… cope. Realize this is my new normal.”

“It gets better,” the blonde said, then looked shocked that she had said it.

Erin frowned in confusion.

“Um. I mean.” Holtzmann looked side to side and then said, “You have dreams, right? Nightmares? Moments when you freeze up?”

“Yes…”

“Those get better.” She reached over, squeezed her knee awkwardly. “It takes a while but… the trauma fades, sort of, usually, and you… you learn how to get on with your life.”

Erin nodded. She set her hand on Holtzmann’s. “What happened… what happened with you?”

“I don’t like to talk about it,” the blonde replied stiffly.

“Oh.”

“I’ll tell you one day just… not now.”

Erin shifted closer on the couch. Their legs were touching. “Take all the time you need.”

The therapist nodded, looking a little dazed.

“Holtz… can I do something… crazy?”

“I love crazy.”

Erin swallowed. _Come on, Gilbert, woman up. Now or never,_ she thought. “Can I… kiss you?”

Blue eyes widened, but then Holtzmann grinned like the sun itself had asked her. “It would be a pleasure.”

The redhead flushed. “Now I’m nervous.”

Holtzmann scooted closer and squeezed her knee. “Don’t be.”

Erin reached forward, eyes down, played with the zipper tag on Holtzmann’s vest. “It’s just you,” she said, sounding more like she was trying to convince herself than anybody else.

Holtzmann nodded in agreement. “It’s just me.”

She took a deep breath, then looked up, leaned forward, and pressed her lips quickly to Holtzmann’s. The blonde’s lips were chapped. She pulled away, but not far, and a second later, Holtzmann leaned forward and kissed her.

She inhaled sharply in surprise. Holtz jerked back.

“S-Sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” Erin said quickly. She tentatively took Holtzmann’s hand.  “It was… nice.”

“Was it?” asked Holtzmann.

“Yeah.”

Holtzmann ducked her head and smiled, then played with her fingers.

“Do you want to go out sometime?” Erin asked. “Someplace real?”

“Just to clarify, on a date, right?”

“Yes. A date. Not on the couch or in the hospital.”

The therapist grinned. “That sounds great.”

-/-

Holtzy: I have a date  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: !!!!  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: With Erin?  
Holtzy: No, with the Pope  
Holtzy: Yes with Erin  
Holtzy: What do I wear on a date?  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Are you going someplace fancy?  
Holtzy: No  
Holtzy: Sushi Sushi in Harlem  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: When are you going?  
Holtzy: Friday night.  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Bring a button up and slacks to work. Or wear slacks and a graphic tee with one of those waistcoasts you love.   
Holtzy: kat  
Holtzy: *kay  
Holtzy: Thanks Abs   
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: No problem : )

-/-

On Thursday night, Holtzmann pulled on her new jumpsuit. She had sewn in all the plates from the old suit while she was stuck on Abby’s couch, and she had ordered more plates from where she had bought them last. In the meantime, her newest toy had arrived. She strapped the voice modifier about her neck, pulling the mask she had made over the lower half of her nose. With a little double sided tape, the mask would stay in place even if she had to run.

Now she could go.

She flew to Washington Heights and walked, wings folded neatly behind her back, into the office of the 33rd Precinct. Patty was sitting behind the desk at the front, reading. She looked up and her eyes widened, then she frowned.

“What do you have now?”

“I don’t. I need your help.”

Patty’s frown deepened. “Nice voice modifier.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

Patty crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Do you need my help or the NYPD’s help, cuz there’s a big difference there.”

Holtzmann cursed the woman’s stubbornness and need to understand the details. “I need the help that shiny badge on your chest can get, but I need your help specifically.”

An eyebrow asked. “And what exactly can little old desk Patty do for you that another officer can’t?”

Holtz’s response was stiff. “I trust you.”

“You _what_?”

“You haven’t arrested me yet. Now hurry up, I need access to the subway tunnels.”

“Oh no, baby girl, I’ve had enough subway walkin’ to last a life time. No thanks.”

This had gone so much better in her head. “You want to help your friend, right?”

Patty’s eyes narrowed. “What friend?”

Shit. Those words had come out of her mouth without thinking.

“The woman I saved. She lives with you, right? I need to find the evidence that will seal the deal on Rowan North’s conviction permanently and give her peace of mind.”

“Girl, I think the NYPD has plenty of evidence to lock that clown’s ass away for a long time,” the officer said slowly, looking her up and down suspiciously. “How do you know Erin?”

“I’ve followed her recovery,” Holtzmann replied. It was true, technically. “Please, Officer Tolan. I need your help.”

Patty sighed long and hard. “Girl, fine. But only this once. What tunnel do you need to look at?”

“I need to sweep the tunnels on both sides of Hunter College Station.”

“For what?”

“Graffiti.”

The officer snorted. “There’s plenty of that all over the city.” Holtzmann simply stared at her. “….Fine. You want to waste your time on graffiti, fine by me. Meet me tomorrow at eight and you’ll get your subway tunnel access.”

Holtzmann sagged in relief. She would have to call into work sick again, but if she could find more information that linked Rowan to Sanctuary, the better. “Thank you, Officer Tolan.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I still gotta get us in.”

.

.

.

Eight hours later and Holtzmann-as-Lucifer swept down beside the off-duty Officer Tolan. She hated flying in the day time; as soon as she landed people bustling in and out of the station started gasping and taking pictures. Patty looked on, unamused.

“Did you get us access to the tunnel?”

“Yeah. I called inna favor with my old boss,” Patty said, hands shoved in her NYPD-issued coat. “You’s lucky I used to work at the MTA. C’mon.”

Holtzmann followed her down the stairs of the station. There was a station manager waiting for them. Patty made the introductions.

“Dre, this is Lucifer. Lucifer, Dre.”

“What’s up, man?” the station manager said.

“Hi,” Holtzmann greeted, then got down to business. “I need to get in the tunnels. She’s my supervision. What kind of window do I have?”

“We’s got trains comin’ in every two to five.”

Holtz grimaced. There was a reason she had wanted to do this at midnight; the window expanded to ten minutes. It would have to do, though. “Fine. Pa—Officer Tolan, I want you to take the inbound tunnels. I’ll take the outbound tunnels. If you see any graffiti, anything sprayed on the walls at all, shout.”

“Wh—Hold on, I was supposed to get you in, since when am I supposed to help you look?!”

“Since now,” Holtz replied. “Let’s go, Dre, we need to get moving.”

“You got it.”

He let them through. They split up on the mezzanine level; Holtzmann took the outbound tunnels, where the IED had exploded. The platform had been cleared up, and the blood scrubbed off the tiles, but the walls still held the pock marks from the shrapnel. Holtzmann swallowed and nodded to the few curious onlookers. Then the train pulled out and she was able to get down onto the tracks.

Just like the time before, there was nothing. Not even a hint of graffiti. She managed to get out and in with only jumping into the center tunnel median for a train once. Annoyed, Holtzmann headed to the other side as soon as the train departed.

She called down the tunnel. “Got anything?”

Silence. Then, “Yeah, I think so.”

Holtzmann hurried down the tunnel to where Patty was looking at the wall. There, sprayed through a carefully made stencil, was the Sanctuary logo. A flying dove, but instead of carrying an olive branch, it was carrying a syringe.

She had _so_ hoped she would be wrong.

“What the hell is it?” Patty asked.

“Nothing for you to concern yourself with,” the superhero said coolly, taking a picture of the graffiti with her phone.

“Excuse you?!”

She hurried out of the tunnel before the train could come, calling over her shoulder, “Thank you for your help.”

“Hey—hey! Lucifer! Get back here!”

Patty ran after her, but Holtzmann ran out of the station and took to the sky before she could catch her. Patty stood in the street swearing a blue streak and swearing to tear the superhero a new one should she ever step foot in the 33rd Precinct again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooooo......how 'bout them apples? ;)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are celebrating MY FREEDOM FROM ARCHITECTURE HELL with a special chapter a week early. Enjoy, friends!

Chapter 16

Holtzmann was distracted throughout her date with Erin. She could not help it—she wanted to know how Rowan had been connected with Sanctuary and why he had been spray painting information about the place all over the city. How long before he spilled to the police? What would he tell them about her and the place she had come from?

“Holtz?” Erin’s voice brought her out of her thoughts. The two of them were seated at a two-person table in a little sushi joint in Harlem, waiting for their order. Erin was in a royal blue dress that showed a little cleavage, which had had Holtzmann dry-mouthed and slightly speechless when Erin had changed into it after their PT session.

Now, she was speechless and dry-mouthed for a different reason. “W-What?”

“Are you okay?” Erin asked softly. “You’re spaced out again.”

“Sorry, just thinking about work.”

“Well, I would appreciate it if you focused on me, considering this is a date,” the red-head replied, a tad hurt.

Holtzmann swallowed past the lump in her throat and took a sip of her drink. “You’re absolutely right. That is my bad. You’re the focus of tonight from this moment out.”

Her conviction was apparently strong enough that Erin was convinced. The physicist played with her straw wrapper. “So I got an email from my boss today.” 

The blonde almost choked as she took another sip of her soda. “You did?”

“Yes. I’ve been updating the school on my recovery and they asked if I would be well enough to teach a class next semester.”

“Oh. That’s a big step, going back to work.”

Erin nodded. “I know.”

“What did you say?”

“I haven’t responded yet,” she admitted, still fussing with her wrapper. “But, I’m thinking I might ease back in. Take on a single class and see how it goes.”

Holtzmann nodded. “It’s what, almost Thanksgiving? That gives you two months of PT before you go back? We should be able to get you to standing for long enough that you can lecture.”

Erin smiled. “I want to start working on stairs so I can move back into my apartment before the semester starts.”

“All right. We can definitely work that in.”

The physicist smiled, then groaned. “Look at us. We’re on a date and all we can talk about is my recovery.”

“What else is there to talk about?” Holtzmann joked. “The news sucks and we already talked about the movie we watched.”

“Well, let’s figure out something else to talk about.”

“Like what?”

Erin flushed. “I don’t know.”

“Hmmm,” Holtzmann pouted for a second, then brightened. “Shall we engage in a protracted bout of twenty questions?

The physicist laughed. “Sure, why not? You got first.”

.

.

.

Their date was a rousing success. They played two or three rounds of increasingly ludicrous twenty questions, ate good sushi and discussed the options of Erin buying a gym membership to increase her PT, then took a Lyft home. Erin had desperately enjoyed getting out of Patty’s house and Holtzmann had enjoyed watching Erin enjoy her time out. It was a little bittersweet for both of them when they had to go back inside.

“You reminded me at the restaurant,” Erin said as Holtzmann packed up her gear in her duffle bag. “Thanksgiving is next week.”

“So it is.”

“Are you going anywhere?” Erin asked.

“Probably just going to spend it with Abby, if she’s not working,” the blonde responded. “Why?”

“Well…Patty and I were talking about it and since I’m here we were thinking of having a little get-together of our own. Do you and Abby want to join us?”

The blonde turned and gave Erin a million watt smile. “That is the best idea I have ever heard.”

The physicist blushed. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Holtz looked excited. “Abby makes killer scalloped mashed potatoes. It will be exciting to have Thanksgiving with people like it’s supposed to be celebrated!”

Erin frowned. “Do you not usually?”

The therapist shook her head. “Like I said, just Abby, normally.”

“What about your family?”

“Don’t have one,” Holtzmann said stiffly. Erin’s eyes widened. Holtzmann beat a hasty retreat to happier topics. “Which is why it’s going to be fun spending it with you guys!”

The physicist stepped over to her carefully and took a hold of her bicep to get her attention. “My family doesn’t… talk to me. So it’s basically like I don’t have one either.”

The blonde swallowed. “Oh?”

Erin nodded. “I usually spend it with Patty’s family.”

“Oh.” Holtzmann roughly recalled the police officer in question had a very large extended family that partied it up on the holidays. “That…must be fun for you.”

“It’s a learning experience,” the redhead allowed, but smiled fondly. She liked Patty’s family, however loud and overbearing they might have been. They accepted her without any question, and she had discovered a love for collard greens. It was a mutually beneficial situation. “I just... wanted to tell you because I know what it’s like.”

 Holtzmann bit her lip. She really did not, but she did not want to say that and then have to explain herself. So she simply softened her expression and said, “Thanks, Erin.”

The physicist smiled and leaned in and gave her a gentle kiss. Unlike their first kiss, Holtzmann immediately pressed back into it. Erin sighed happily and deepened in, leaving the therapist racing to catch up. Holtzmann had kissed a few girls in college but it had never really gone anywhere—she had not let it. So kissing Doctor Erin Gilbert longer than a few seconds and having it go farther than just a chaste kiss on the lips was more than slightly terrifying for her.

She was distinctly aware of the fact that her hands should probably be doing _something._ Erin’s had found their way around her waist. Holtzmann tried that, but it was too awkward, so she draped her arms around Erin’s shoulders instead. That was better. Now she had to figure out how to breathe and kiss at the same time. 

Eventually they fit into a nice rhythm that Holtzmann could easily fall into. At some point they migrated to the couch, where Erin situated herself half in the blonde’s lap and half out of it. Holtzmann did not mind in the slightest, as they were still kissing and it was still excellent.

“Is this okay?” the redhead asked softly after a time.

“It’s great,” Holtz replied, sincerity in every syllable.

Erin smiled and her fingers came up and cupped her face. Holtzmann leaned into her touch. Erin gently stroked her thumb along Holtz’s cheek bone, then slid her hand back and gently worked fingertips into the hair at the nape of Holtz’s neck. She scratched gently, experimentally; the blonde made a contented noise. Erin’s smile widened.

Then Patty came into the kitchen. “What in the sweet Hell—are you two serious?”

The two sprang apart.

“Why am I always walking into y’all—you know what, I don’t want to know.”

“Sorry, Patty,” Holtzmann said guiltily as Patty grabbed her travel mug and filled it up with coffee. Erin was bright red and suddenly very interested with a discarded periodical.

“I’m glad y’all are together now and shit, but keep the couple-y stuff out of my house when I’m in it please,” the officer told them.

“Absolutely,” Erin said weakly.

Patty snorted and shook her head. “I’m goin’ to work. G’night, y’all.”

“G’night, Pattycakes.”

“Goodnight.”

Still muttering to herself the police officer left for work. Erin and Holtzmann waited until they heard the door close before looking at each other and laughing. Holtzmann scooted closer to her. “She’s not in the house anymore.”

“No, she’s not,” Erin replied, grinning and shaking with mirth.

They leaned into each other and kissed again. Now that neither of them was so hesitant, their kisses became slightly more insistent. Holtzmann’s hand settled on Erin’s thigh. They made out for what must have been half an hour; Holtzmann got lost in Erin’s touch and the way she smelled like coconut and fruit all at once. Erin gently coaxed the blonde’s callused fingers into the right places, making encouraging noises as she squeezed first her thigh, then her waist.

Erin slid her hand under Holtzmann’s shirt—and that’s when it all derailed. Holtz still had enough brainpower to recoil instantly, grabbing her by the wrist and yanking her hand away. It all happened in less than a second. Holtzmann’s heart was hammering, adrenaline coursing through her veins. It had been close.

“Holtz?” the physicist asked gently, reaching forward hesitantly between their sudden void. “Are you okay?”

“I—I have to go,” the superhero stammered, scrambling backwards off the futon and away from Erin.

“Holtz!”

“It’s not you,” the blonde said quickly, grabbing her jacket and bag. She felt guilty and scared at the same time and everything was telling her to flee. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Holtzmann—we need to talk about this.”

“Not now.” Holtz went to get her shoes; Erin trailed after her. “Please don’t.”

“I’m not going to force you to talk about anything.” Holtzmann pulled on her shoes without talking, which Erin took as a sign to continue. “But I’d like to understand what just happened so we can avoid it.”

Holtzmann wanted desperately to tell her why. She ached to not be hidden anymore. She wanted to tell Erin but she was terrified of what it would mean—for them, for their friendship, for their blossoming romance. The fear of rejection was high, and the thought of putting Erin in danger was unconscionable.

She finished lacing her boots and straightened up but hid her face from Erin. “I can’t. Right now just..I can’t.”

Erin sighed and was quiet for a long time. Holtzmann stood in the foyer, unable to move as she waited for the physicist to respond. Finally, “Okay.”

Holtzmann could tell Erin was upset with her—her voice did disappointed well.

“You can tell me when you’re ready.”

 _I’m sorry, I’m not ready yet,_ Holtzmann thought guiltily. She offered Erin a half smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Monday?”

Erin nodded. “Monday.”

“Have a good weekend.”

“You, too.”

And Holtzmann slipped out the door and into the dark November night.

-/-

Erin Gilbert: I think I screwed up with Holtz.  
Abby Yates: ???  
Erin Gilbert: We came back from our date and it was great and we were kissing…and then I tried to slide my hand in her shirt and she freaked out.  
Erin Gilbert: She left immediately and wouldn’t talk to me about it.  
Erin Gilbert: She told me it wasn’t me but I can’t help but thinking it was.  
Abby Yates: Oh boy.   
Abby Yates: Okay.   
Abby Yates: One: I know you’re concerned about it but if Holtzmann does not want to talk about it then there is nothing you can do to make her talk.  
Abby Yates: Two: Holtzmann has some…body issue problems. They extend to her back. It’s sensitive, and it’s not my place to tell you why. She’ll tell you when she’s ready, but I promise you did nothing wrong.  
Erin Gilbert: Does she have back issues?  
Abby Yates: Again, not my place. You’ll have to wait until she tells you.   
Erin Gilbert: Okay.  
Erin Gilbert: Thank you, Abby.  
Abby Yates: Of course.   
Abby Yates: Was the date okay, though?  
Erin Gilbert: Oh, yes. It was great!  
Erin Gilbert: Also, if Holtzmann forgets to tell you, you and her are invited to Thanksgiving.  
Abby Yates: That’s great! And I will talk to her about it.  
Erin Gilbert: She seemed pretty positive about it.  
Abby Yates: I’ll check with her (and my schedule) again just to be sure : )  
Erin Gilbert: Okay, let me know. It’s not brunch, but it might be better.  
Abby Yates: It might be : ) Chat soon, goodnight.  
Erin Gilbert: Goodnight, Abby.

-/-

Holtzy: I just fucked everything up  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: ???   
Holtzy: I was at Patty’s with Erin after our date and we ended up making out   
Holtzy: and then she tried to put her hands under my shirt and I panicked   
Holtzy: and ran  
Holtzy: And now I feel like shit.   
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Oh my god.   
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Erin literally just got done telling me this story  
Holtzy: ???  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: She texts me, too, you know.   
Holtzy: What did she say?  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Nuh uh. You need to talk to her like a big girl.  
Holtzy: I can’t tell her about my wings Abby!  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: If you want to date this girl you are going to have to tell her sooner or later.   
Holtzy: :/  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Let’s just…try to get through Thanksgiving first, alright?   
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Although you might want to try to patch it up before then because she seemed very concerned and hurt.  
Holtzy: fuck  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: This one is on you. I’m not saying you tell her you have wings immediately but try to make it up to her okay  
Holtzy: I’ll try  
Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Good.

-/-

Holtzmann slept late the next morning. She rarely slept in, but it was the first weekend she had had in a while without the looming threat of catching the terrorist, so she felt like she deserved to sleep in. She shuffled to the kitchen and started to brew coffee, then shoved some bread in the toaster.

While the coffee maker gurgled, she thought about the night before and her text exchange with Abby before she had gone to bed. The doctor was right—she had fucked up, and she knew it. She had hurt Erin and that was inexcusable. She would have to think up something a lot better than root beer floats to apologize.

The toaster popped and Holtz spread peanut butter on the slices before grabbing her coffee and going to sit on her couch. She grabbed her phone to scroll through social media as she ate breakfast, but was waylaid by a text from Abby.

Abs ᕦ〳 ⊙ ڡ ⊙ 〵ᕤ: Check CNN.

Holtz, knowing her phone would take forever to load the website, grabbed her computer. She booted it up and logged in, then pulled up Chrome. As directed, she checked CNN.

The top story was “New York Bombing Site Defaced With Graffiti” and included a picture of the graffiti in question.

_‘ICARUS ALWAYS FALLS’_

The words were scrawled in bright red, foot high letters on the cobblestoned street of Shubert Alley. Holtzmann wanted to vomit. Rowan was still in prison. If her Sanctuary code name was being spray painted in a public space, it could mean only one thing: he had an accomplice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say I'm sorry, but I'm really not.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rejoice, friends, for I am free of all undergraduate attachments and am ready to commit myself fully to this fic! Huzzah!!! But also weep, because my beta is a med student and has no such freedom. Alas. We'll try to get everything to you as quickly as possible, but please be patient with us! :)
> 
> Also, fair warning: This chapter is your last happy moment for the foreseeable future. Enjoy it while it lasts!

Chapter 17

Holtzmann dressed quickly and boarded a train for Abby’s that morning, stopping only for food along the way. She let herself into the apartment, turned on the coffee maker, and sat down to wait for the doctor’s return from work. She didn’t have to wait long.

“What the hell is going on?” Holtzmann asked as soon as Abby walked into the apartment.

“I see you checked CNN,” Abby replied as she set down her bag. If she was surprised to find Holtzmann in her apartment, she gave no sign.

“Yes, I did.”

“I’m assuming I was right in thinking it relates to Sanctuary?”

“Yes! But neither the police nor the media understand what this means!”

“I don’t understand what it means either,” Abby replied calmly, as she shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the peg by the door. “What’s Icarus?”

“The code name the Sanctuary people gave me,” Holtz said bitterly. She poured herself a cup of coffee, staring at the steaming liquid intently. “They thought it was funny.”

“Because of the wings? That’s hardly original.”

“Yes, but not because I had them. It’s because they liked to clip them.”

Abby was quiet. She went to the coffee maker, which Holtzmann had left to warm, and poured herself a cup. “Someone else was working with Rowan.”

“Yes.”

“And we don’t know who it is?”

“No.”

“And the police don’t know the Sanctuary connection, so they don’t know about the accomplice.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, fuck.”

“It’s like they’re doing it to taunt me,” Holtzmann growled. “They know I know and are milking it for all it’s worth.”

“At least they didn’t set off another bomb to prove their point.”

“Yet.”

It was a sobering prospect; more people could die.

Abby sighed long and hard. “If this other person is smarter than Rowan, he or she won’t hang around after the bomb goes off and we won’t have any video footage of them.”

“Unless they were there in the beginning.” Holtzmann reached into her backpack and pulled out her laptop. “I’m going to look through everything again.”

“Okay. Let me take a shower and change, and then I’ll help you out.”

“Thanks.”

-/-

The old videos did not provide anything new, to neither Abby’s nor Holtzmann’s surprise. They had little time to worry about it, though, because New York City was getting ready for Thanksgiving. Abby was now officially making scalloped potatoes for their impromptu gathering at Patty’s that week, and Holtzmann had been tasked with dessert. The blonde came back from the store with three pies, which she absolutely refused to let Abby comment on.

“I really don’t think we need—”

“Nope,” said Holtzmann, as she put the pies in Abby’s refrigerator. “Never such a thing as too many pies.”

“But what about—”

“Don’t want to hear about it, Abs. We will have three beautiful and diverse pies for Thanksgiving.”

“But chocolate cream, pumpkin, _and_ sweet potato?”

“A selection of all the best pies for our culinary perusal.”

“You just want leftover pie.”

“Four ladies, three pies, and you think there are going to be extras?”

“None of us are going to eat an entire pie!” Holtzmann raised an eyebrow. “Okay, we all might have the capability to eat an entire pie, and nobody is going to stop you if you try, but the rest of us have a little more self-restraint.”

“Is it self-restraint or is it denying yourself the little pleasures in life?”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Not all of us have the metabolism of a racecar on amphetamines.”

The blonde pressed on, undeterred. “I was going to get a coconut cream but they were out.”

“You love coconut cream.”

“I know!” Holtzmann affected a sad puppy face and looked very put upon. “I will suffer on valiantly, though.”

“Very brave,” Abby commented dryly. “Now if you’d only talk to Erin.”

The therapist stiffened. It had been two days since her date and disastrous near-wing incident with Erin. Holtz had not so much as texted her since. 

“You have therapy with her tomorrow.”

Holtzmann groaned and leaned against Abby’s fridge, pressing her face against the cool surface. “I know.”

“I don’t want Thanksgiving to be awkward,” Abby said, as she stirred the soup she was making for dinner.

“But I don’t know what to say,” she whined.

“I suggest using your words.”

“Helpful, Abby.”

“I aim to please.” The doctor turned down the heat on the soup. “But seriously, figure it out, Holtzmann.”

Holtzmann sighed and rubbed her face with her hands. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Now the soup is ready so let’s eat. I’m starving.”

-/-

“Can we talk?” Holtzmann asked.

Erin turned her head, looking up at Holtzmann from where she was lying on the floor about to get her end-of-therapy massage. Awkward tension had hung between them all evening, and the movie had done nothing to dispel any of it. “Is it about Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Erin told her, lying back down so Holtzmann could begin. “It’s okay.”

“I hurt you, though,” Holtzmann said in a small voice.

“Because I did not check boundaries and got carried away.”

“It’s not your fault I fucked up!”

Silence reigned between them. This was not how Holtz had wanted the conversation to go. The movie played on forgotten in the background. Without anything better to do, Holtzmann started the massage. Erin’s muscles remained tight under her touch despite the expert attention the therapist was paying. Holtzmann worried her lip as she worked—Erin was not being as responsive as usual.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally, her hands pausing along Erin’s legs. “For not… for running away and shutting down. I panicked and… didn’t think…”

The apology was loaded, at least to Holtzmann. She had run away from Erin more than once.

“I forgive you,” the physicist said softly. “I’m sorry for getting worked up.”

“T’sokay.” Holtz paused, then returned to the massage.

Erin waited until Holtzmann finished the leg before saying, “Maybe we should talk about this now?”

“…Maybe we should.” The blonde paused, and then smiled. “I liked the kissing.”

Erin smiled, too, although Holtz could not see it. “I liked that, too.”

“And the touching. Just not my back.”

“Is there anywhere else I shouldn’t touch?”

“My shoulders.”

“Okay.”

Holtzmann returned to Erin’s back for a second pass; the physicist finally started to relax underneath her. “What about you?”

They talked in this vein for the next quarter of an hour until Erin was well and truly massaged. Holtzmann helped her dress again, and they shared a gentle kiss before Holtz started to pack the PT things up.

“I’m glad we got that settled,” the redhead admitted quietly.

“…Me, too.”

-/-

The women decided to hold their Thanksgiving celebration the Wednesday before Thanksgiving Day, as both Abby and Patty had to work the actual day of the holiday. Abby and Holtzmann loaded their food carefully into an Uber. Neither of them trusted carrying food on the subway.

It was a misty, chilly November night. The clouds hung low over the city and Holtzmann watched pedestrians skitter by as the rideshare drove them uptown. Some of the pedestrians carried umbrellas, despite the lack of rain as some of the weather reports had promised.  The mist unnerved Holtzmann; it made visibility poor, and she liked to be able to see things coming.

When they finally arrived at Patty’s townhouse, they unloaded themselves and their food offerings and trooped gamely up the steps. Erin opened the door; Patty was apparently keeping a close eye on the turkey in the oven. The two visiting women kicked off their shoes and carried their food into the kitchen. Patty greeted Abby enthusiastically; Holtzmann skirted around them to place the pies on the island, shrugged off her coat, then went to kiss Erin.

“Come here often?” the blonde asked slyly as they broke the kiss.

“Do you?”

“Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” Holtz replied with a grin. “And, fancy that, it’s Wednesday. But there’s no PT equipment in sight.”

Erin rolled her eyes and smoothed her hand along the embroidery of Holtzmann’s squash-colored button up. “This is festive.”

“You should see me on Christmas.”

An eyebrow was raised. “Ugly sweaters?”

“With lights,” Holtzmann grinned.

Erin rolled her eyes. “Of course.” But she leaned forward and kissed Holtzmann anyway.

“Okay, if the two love birds would actually like to join the dinner conversation,” Abby teased from where she was standing with Patty. The two women, who suddenly realized how close they were standing to each other, took a step back.

Patty rolled her eyes. “Holtzy, baby, can you set the table?”

“Uhh…” Holtzmann, having never set a table before in her life, glanced frantically at Abby.

Abby sighed. “Erin, could you help her?”

“Sure.”

“Silverware and the nice place settin’s are in the chest of drawers,” Patty told them as they passed Abby and Patty into the dining room.

“Have you never set a table before?” Erin asked Holtz as they took the silverware, nice plates, and place mats out of the chest of drawers. In addition to the place settings, Patty’s china cabinet also featured several very nice old pieces that neither of them recognized.

“Nope,” the blonde replied, popping the ‘p’ as she took the place mats to the table.

Erin frowned, but gathered up the plates and the napkins and set them out. Holtzmann counted out silverware, which Erin then carefully arranged on the table. Abby came out to see how they were doing.

“We’re just going to serve from the counter,” she told them. 

“Sounds great.”

When Erin and Holtzmann returned to the kitchen, Patty was complaining to Abby about the weather as she carved the turkey.

“I just hopes it clears up before the parade tomorrow,” the officer was saying. “Otherwise going to be cold as balls and soggy as them, too.”

“Not a mental picture I needed,” Abby told her, wrinkling her nose.

“The forecast says it’s supposed to be cold but clear tomorrow morning,” Erin said, grabbing Holtzmann’s arm as she attempted to start serving herself. Holtzmann pouted; Erin subtly shook her head and mouthed ‘wait’.

“What time do you have to be there?”

“Four o’clock in the god damn morning,” the officer replied, with an expression that said it all. “It’s not over until noon or so. _And_ they still want me to work my usual shift Friday night.”

All three women made various noises of sympathy.

“I know, man. It ain’t right.” Patty sighed, putting down the knife. “Alright, y’all. Let’s eat before this gets cold.”

Holtzmann did not need to be told twice. She filled her plate up with turkey, gravy, potatoes, mac and cheese, collard greens, and cranberry sauce before taking it to the dining room.

“Don’t start eating until we get there!” Abby called after her teasingly.

“You doubt wounds me, Abby.”

“You want anything to drink, baby? We’ve got beer and wine special.”

Holtzmann came back into the room and shook her head. “I’m good with water.”

“Okay. Cups’re in the middle cabinet.”

“I know. Thanks, Patty.” Holtzmann filled her glass with water while the other women filled their plates with food and their glasses with wine. Alcohol had never settled well with Holtzmann—she did not like the thought of being inebriated.

The four gathered around the table.

“Are we going to say thanks?” Erin asked almost nervously.

“We don’t have to, baby,” Patty told her. 

“I’d like to say something,” Abby said quickly. Everyone turned obligingly to her. “It’s been a real pleasure knowing you three ladies. It wasn’t under the best circumstances that we met but I’m glad we found each other, and I’m glad we could spend this meal together.”

“Amen.”

“Anybody else have anything mushy to say?” Abby asked. Nobody moved. “Okay, let’s eat.”

“Where are you being stationed tomorrow, Patty?” Holtz asked as they all dug in.

Patty made a disgusted face. “35th and 6th. Far too close to the action for me.”

“Where’d you rather be?”

“Staging area. It’s a lot calmer.”

“I can understand that,” Erin replied.

“These potatoes are the bomb dot com, Abs,” Holtzmann said cheerfully, mumbling through a mouth half full.

Abby rolled her eyes fondly. “You always say that.”

“It’s true!”

“They are good,” Erin said.

Patty, who had not yet tried them, ate a forkful. Everyone waited for her verdict. “Maybe as good as my aunt’s …but nobody beats her cooking.”

“I’ll take it.”

The four women started to laugh but the sound of the doorbell cut through their joviality.

“Who the hell--?” Patty wondered with a frown, starting to get up.

 Holtzmann was already up and going for the door. “I got it!”

She swung it open, fully expecting a door to door salesman selling windows, but the woman on the other side of the door caused the smile to slide right off her face.

The woman’s hair was frizzy in the humid November air, her glasses dark and slightly chunky, and the bolo tie around her neck was inlaid with real mother-of-pearl and turquoise. It had been sixteen-odd years since Holtzmann had last seen Doctor Rebecca Gorin; her hair had gotten a little greyer, the glasses perched on her nose were new, and her face had gained several lines, but beyond that, she had barely changed a bit.

Dr. Rebecca Gorin smiled wanly at Holtzmann. “Hello, Icarus.”

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next three chapters are flashback so, naturally, this is where the Graphic Depictions of Violence tag comes into play for this fic. There's gonna be blood and fighting and torture, among other things. If Holtzmann has mentioned it in previous chapters, it's coming up in chapters 17-20. You've been warned.

* * *

 

_Flashback_

_14 Years Previously_

_(Year: 2002)_

 

* * *

 

“Dinner time.”

Sanctuary Experiment S#26435, codename Icarus, snapped her head up as the slot in her cell door rattled open. The empty tray from lunch was pulled from the room and a new, laden tray was shoved through it. Then the slot slammed shut.

Despite being hungry, Icarus waited. When nothing happened, Icarus cautiously approached it. Ever since one of her meals had included a poison to test if her biometrics worked properly, she had stopped trusting her food trays. The poison had made her sick for a week and the scientists had still expected her to perform tasks and run through challenges. Now, she took no chances; she half expected that one day one of the trays was going to explode, or do something equally awful, to test her reflexes.

The food on the tray was the same as always—a slice of pureed loaf that was not quite meat, not quite grain, and not quite vegetables. The loaf was an unappetizing greyish-brown color and an equally unappetizing flavor and texture; it never left her filled for very long. The drink that came with the tray was also the same—a bottle filled with water, mixed with a colored orange or blue powder mix, which settled out of the water as a sand-like powder at the bottom of the bottle if left to sit for a few hours.

The orange powder made the water sickly sweet and gave her energy for hours. The blue one made the water slightly sour and made her tired. Orange always came with breakfast, lunch, and training sessions. Blue was always for dinner. Icarus knew the blue drink contained a sedative, but without it she had nightmares that woke her screaming and drenched in sweat. She drank the blue liquid; besides, it helped the bland, mealy loaf go down.

-/-

She was to fight. Again. The experiments were always made to fight.

It was training, they said. For what, she did not know. None of them knew, she figured. They were just doing as ordered, because if they did not fight they would suffer the consequences. Icarus had not yet had to suffer _the consequences_ in her fifteen years at Sanctuary, and had no desire to anytime soon. Every single one of the experiments knew, Icarus included, that if they did not fight, they would be forced to deal with something much worse than the tests, tasks, or training.

So when they were thrown into the ring together, they fought.

Some of the experiments fought hard, and bitterly, with no mercy for their opponents. Those were the kiss ups, the one who wanted to bask in the praise of the scientists. Icarus called them the pets, at least to herself, because for their bloodthirsty behavior they received meals that were marginally better, lived in cells that were slightly larger, and got free recreation time twice a week instead of once. As long as they fought until they were restrained and their opponents were as beaten, bloody, and broken as possible, they lived in Sanctuary’s version of the lap of luxury. 

Icarus, for her part, could never stomach fighting. She was neither fond of it, nor built for it. She had learned to tolerate pain over the years, but she did not like causing it. She also cared little for hand-to-hand fighting—her wings were a disadvantage to her at such close quarters, despite her agility. She preferred to watch, wait, and then use the element of surprise to drop down from the sky and incapacitate her opponent.

Ring fighting held no such luxury. It was all fists and elbows, kicks and bites. Icarus had learned to hit hard and fast, trying to end the sessions as quickly as possible before it descended into bloodthirsty bludgeoning. She would never go as far as the pets. She would make her opponents bleed, sure; blood happened when fists and claws met flesh. Occasionally, she might even dislocate an opponent’s shoulder, but never would she beat them so black and blue that they would be unable to sustain consciousness for weeks at a time.

That was simply not her. There were experiments at Sanctuary who could do such a thing easily and without much thought, but not Icarus.

Icarus’s marginal effort in the training ring was rewarded with a small cold cell of concrete. It held a hard steel bed with no mattress and a small toilet. She was only given one recreation a week, received the standard issue food three times a day, and when the scientists did not have something planned for her, she forced to sit in her blank cell and find ways to amuse herself. Normally, this amusement took the form of physical activity—as many crunches, push-ups, lunges, and other body weight exercises as she could stand. She had no access to the mind stimulation that the pets did.  Sometimes she wondered what she could do with a piece of wire, or a book, or something small to occupy her hands, but she was never given the luxury of finding out.

The experiment she was fighting today was one of the scientists’ pets, the half human-half lion chimera the scientists called Aslan. Icarus had fought her once before, a long time ago. The last time they had gone toe to toe, Aslan had shredded her wings so badly she had needed grafts. The pain had been excruciating. Icarus did not want to go through it again.

The ‘fighting ring’ they were in was actually a room with sloped concrete walls on five sides, with a reinforced glass wall making up the other. During the matches, the scientists watched their progress from the safety of the prep room beyond. The fight would continue until one of the fighters could not. Only the scientists on the other side of the glass made the call.

Icarus shifted uncomfortably in the chair she had been strapped to. Before and after each fight, the experiments underwent a series of tests. Blood was drawn, reflexes were tested, reactions timed, and orange liquid was consumed. The bird-human swallowed the last of her drink and an orderly took it away. Out of the corner of her eye she watched the werecat do the same.

A scientist approached and covered her with tiny dots—Icarus was not exactly sure what they were for, but she suspected they were some sort of monitoring device. Then her least favorite part, the collar, was locked around her neck.

The addition of the shock collar—which the scientists used to encourage or stop fights without need for bodily intrusion—always meant the session was about to begin. She hated the collar—what it symbolized, what it could do, and how it felt on her neck. It always made her feel like she was being choked.

The chair restraints were removed from her legs, waist, and arms, leaving the ever-present shackles at her wrists and ankles.

“Up.”

Icarus got up and shuffled, under direction of two guards, into her holding chamber right off the fighting arena. It was barely big enough for her; two people would have been a squeeze. The walls were hard plastic, the tiny bench was slatted wood. The guards pushed her in, then closed the clear acrylic blast door behind her. Only when it sealed her inside did the locks of her shackles click open, controlled by some remote switch.

As quickly as possible Icarus removed her restraints, then set them on the bench. She turned around and faced the door to the arena. The human-cat hybrid was loaded into her own holding chamber opposite her; Icarus made eye contact with her. The feral snarl she received back did not bode well.

As Aslan removed her restraints, Icarus stretched her muscles—she could not stretch her wings in the enclosed space, so it would have to do. Finally, when they were both ready and the ring had been cleared of all personnel, a buzzer sounded and the blast doors opened.

Icarus took a deep breath and stepped forward into the ring.

.

.

.

Over the years, Icarus had learned not to scream.

Most often the treatments to the ails of those at Sanctuary were done without anesthetic or numbing agents. The experiments hoped for unconsciousness after particularly bad battles. The victors were often not so lucky.

Icarus was dragged from her narrow win against Aslan back to an operating theatre. Aslan’s wickedly sharp claws had sliced open her stomach and, at some point in the fight, her wing had been dislocated.  She was, naturally, in an extraordinary amount of pain. Blood poured from her abdomen and coated her shirt and shorts.

The scientists only seemed to care about the stomach wound; they moved with some urgency, hauling her up onto an operating table, inserting an IV in her arm and strapping her in without even taking off the monitoring pads or her shock collar. As a cocktail of drugs coursed through her body, Icarus slipped into the hazy peace she had learned over the years to cultivate for just this sort of occasion. The sting of antiseptic and the pierce of the needles into her flesh faded away, replaced with chemical oblivion.

By the time she came out of it, she had been unstrapped and was being rolled roughly onto her side. Stitches pulled at her abdominal muscles. Icarus barely managed to resist crying out. She took a breath, counted through the agony, then looked around the room. She searched for something to focus on now that the ceiling was out of sight. She could have settled on the floor or wall tiles, but instead she found the scientist in charge of her.

Dr. Gorin was standing with her arms crossed, watching as the Sanctuary doctors scuttled about, disinfecting their tools, throwing away bloody gauze in the biohazard bins, and preparing to reset her dislocated wing. She was always dressed in the same dark pants, vest, and white labcoat over a starched high collared shirt. She wore thick rimmed glasses, generally shoved up into her hair or hanging around her neck from a chain. The only thing that changed about Dr. Gorin was the bolo tie around her neck, which varied daily. Icarus had learned to look at it to make sure time was passing by as she thought it was.

Today, Dr. Gorin’s bolo tie was a piece of triangular dark stone with gold accents. Icarus focused in on the glint of the metal.

Dr. Gorin noticed her gaze and came over. “Good afternoon, Icarus.”

When the experiment replied, her voice was rough with disuse. “Ma’am.”

“How are we feeling after our win?”

“Been better.”

Dr. Gorin’s lips twitched up. She reached down and ran her hands through Icarus’s hair—it had been buzzed once, but after several months it had grown out and over her ears. She tugged it, then frowned. “It looks like you need a trim. I’ll schedule one for you.”

Icarus swallowed nervously.

Dr. Gorin ran her hand down the experiment’s cheek and held her chin in her hand. It was in that moment that one of the doctors decided to reset her wing. The pain of having her wing popped back into place without warning was excruciating. Icarus found the bliss of unconsciousness.

As her experiment’s body slumped against the table, Dr. Gorin released her chin and walked over to the other scientists to discuss the results of the fight.

-/-

After extensive injuries from which the experiments needed a week or more to recover, they were treated to the glorious indignity of being strapped to a chair and taught a skill. This method of education had given Icarus many useful skills over the years. She had learned to read at eight years old, after a flying accident and two badly broken legs had rendered her immobile for most of a month. Dr. Gorin had personally overseen her literary education, but a tutor had actually taught her to read. It was the first, and last, time Icarus had read extensively. The reading lessons had been from nothing more than children’s books, instruction manuals, legends, and maps. No novels, no history, no fiction, only simple, practical, non-inflammatory words.

An open fracture of her wing at the age of ten had taught her to take the words from the page and put them on paper. A different scientist had taught her to write, but Dr. Gorin had monitored her progress. Over her fifteen years at Sanctuary, Icarus had learned how to pick virtually any lock that was set in front of her, completed years of math in a single two-week marathon, and learned Spanish, Chinese, and German over three separate month long periods. She memorized star charts and learned how to use them to navigate, learned how to start multiple different kinds of fire in every kind of condition known to man, and on one of her favorite lesson occasions, learned how to identify wild flora and fauna. She found a particular irony in studying plants and creatures she would never see in their native environment. That was why those lessons were her favorite.

Icarus did not suffer major injuries often, but over fifteen years she had been hurt enough to learn quite a few new skills. She was not sure _why_ she was being taught these things, but anything was better than the dull, blank walls of her cell. So she gamely sat down and learned.

For the past week, ever since Aslan had dislocated her wing and practically disemboweled her, Icarus had learned to tie knots. Knots for boats, knots for rappelling, knots for restraining, knots for fishing and hunting and surviving—any knot she could have ever possibly wanted to know. Not only had she been taught practically every knot in existence, but she learned how to do it with every sort of rope she ever might need to use…including ropes that were not ropes at all.

It might have been nice, fun even, if she had not been strapped into a hard chair the entire day. If she had not been forced to get up every two hours and make five slow, excruciating laps around the recreation room to promote blood flow and expedite her healing process. If she had not been outfitted with a shock collar every single second of the day, primed and ready to shock her into oblivion should she look at the instructor sideways.

If. If. If. If. If.

-/-

A bang of the door of her cell followed the rattle of the slot and a bark of “Hands!”

Dutifully Icarus slid her arms through the slot and felt the cool metal of handcuffs slide and tighten around her wrists.

“Turn!”

She backed away from the door and did so. The door opened and she stood still, as she was cuffed around the ankles and a strap was looped and tightened around her torso to prevent her wings from snapping up and clipping a guard in the face.

Nothing about the process was optional, of course. A shock wand was shoved into her back as soon as the door opened, pressing against the small of her back. The slightest wrong move would give the guard an excuse to send fifty thousand volts of electricity shooting through her body. The last time she had been on the receiving end of the shock wand, her wings had smoked for two days and her extremities had tingled for two more. She had learned very quickly to stand absolutely motionless, until the wing straps were in place and she had been shackled within an inch of her life.

The standard movement procedure.

The requisite blindfold was slipped over her eyes and two guards grabbed her arms before starting their slow shuffle down the hallways. Icarus counted the turns; a left, pause for a security door clearance, then another left, walk two hundred steps, and a right. Pause for another door; then fifty more steps. Stop.

Icarus swallowed. That combination meant she had been taken to the Atrium, which meant she was about to be given a series of Tests.

The Atrium was the largest space in the Sanctuary that Icarus knew of. It was at least seventy feet tall, possibly more. It had a curved ceiling and iron walls, and when the scientists were bored making their experiments fight or languish in their cells, the experiments were given Tests.

Tests could be anything from races to obstacle courses to timed trials. They were exhausting and incredibly time consuming. A test frequently featured multiple events back to back, and each lasted at least two changes of the guards, sometimes three.

Icarus was taken into a preparation room, where her blindfold was removed and her hands uncuffed. She looked around; there was another experiment, the one the scientists called Tumnus, strapped into a chair about three yards away from her.

Dr. Gorin walked over to her and handed her a bottle. “Drink this, please, Icarus.” It was not a request.

Icarus took the bottle and looked at it dubiously. It was not the usual orange drink she received before and after Tests. This was purple and had something white and chunky floating in it.

Dr. Gorin frowned at her hesitation. “ _Now,_ Icarus.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The experiment unscrewed the bottle and drank. It tasted sour and burned all the way down. She coughed violently, doubling over. One of the scientists scribbled intently on a clipboard. Icarus realized the new drink was just that—brand new. She wondered what it would do to her.

“All of it,” Dr. Gorin said without looking at her. She was writing a note on her own clipboard.

Icarus gritted her teeth, took a deep breath, and chugged the rest. The chunks made her gag as they brushed against her throat on the way down. She struggled to keep the liquid down. After she emptied the bottle’s contents, an orderly handed her a bottle of water. The experiment sipped at it, mostly to wash the sour taste out of her own mouth, and watched Tumnus force down his own purple drink.

She wondered if they were going to be fighting or racing. Tumnus was like her; not bloodthirsty. Like her, he just wanted to get fights done as quickly as possible. He was quick on his goat legs, though; if they were going to be racing it would be a tight one.

Once she was outfitted with a shock collar, she was shuffled into the Atrium; it was set up for an obstacle course. Icarus quickly examined the course as she was led over to the pod that would hold her until the start of the race. There were plenty of places where she could use her wings to her advantage. However, the several tight tunnels and crawlspaces would slow her down and speed Tumnus up; his furry legs would help him wiggle through more quickly, while her wings would bulk her up or catch unexpectedly if she moved carelessly.

She uncuffed in the pod and turned to face the obstacle course. She could not see Tumnus in the pod beside her, but she could see the countdown clock through the thick acrylic door. She shifted, stretching her legs and arms as much as possible. She watched the clock run down; at zero a buzzer blared and the door snapped away from the holding pods.

Icarus took off on foot. She gained enough momentum in a few seconds to snap open her wings and jump into the air. Below her, Tumnus raced for the wall she flew over easily. He bounced and climbed up its surface as she grabbed her station ring, slid it around her arm, and took off for the next one.

As suspected, she held the lead until the ground portion came. She slithered through mud on her belly, holding her wings as close to her body as possible. They still snagged. Tumnus got past her in the rope climbing section, and they were neck and neck as they started for the wobbling lily-pads of the faux lake. Icarus opened her wings, getting ready to take off—and then Tumnus tripped her.

It was a dirty move, not that the scientists would care one ounce as long as it produced results. Icarus overbalanced and tripped ingloriously into the water with a giant splash, as the goat-human hybrid sprinted across the lily pads to victory. She swam to the other shore, her Sanctuary-issued clothes clinging to her body. As she remounted dry land and shook out her wings her shock collar buzzed threatening; a warning. She was not done.

Icarus’ lip curled for a fraction of a second before she gave up on drying her wings and sprinted for the finish line. Tumnus was already in his pod, reshackling, when she crossed over the line. She slopped into her own pod, panting, wishing she had a change of clothes.

There would be no such luck for her; she would be sodden until her clothes dried on their own.

She closed her eyes in resignation to soggy suffering as the acrylic door closed behind her. Then, as she put her shackles back on, she realized her muscles did not hurt from the all out sprint unlike usual. She looked down at the bottle of purple liquid that had been put in her pod while she had been racing. What was this new drink of theirs?

.

.

.

The new drink made her horribly sick that night. Her stomach twisted in knots while stabbing pain wracked through her. She periodically emptied the contents of her stomach into her cell toilet until she was vomiting only bile. On the whole, she decided, this new drink reaction was worse than being partially disemboweled.

With nothing more to vomit, she curled into a tiny ball on her bed, shivering despite the warmth of her cell. She hoped that the scientists would come around with something that would cure the pain and nausea. They didn’t, but the hope kept her sustained through the night of agony.

-/-

Having her wings clipped was perhaps the most humiliating thing the scientists and doctors at Sanctuary did to her. She was by this point accustomed to being poked, prodded, and strapped to tables for this test or that. At this point in her life, the experiments of the scientists were second nature. They were rarely demeaning, just surgical and precise in their execution. The scientists messed with her whether she liked it or not, but they rarely ever _hurt_ her. She was too valuable for that. The fact that she was valuable—expensive, one of the doctors had said once—sustained her in some strange way. No matter what they did to her, at the end of the day, they _needed_ her. And for some reason, that was enough to keep Icarus going.

While the scientists might have valued her abilities, even they had limits, some more than most. And when she misbehaved, or underperformed, or they felt she was getting too uppity, the scientists stripped Icarus of perhaps the only happiness she had left: flight.

Flight was the one thing Icarus had at Sanctuary. To feel the air in her feathers while she soared through Atrium trials made her feel, for that brief moment, alive. Wing clipping robbed her of that freedom. With every snip of the shear her self-confidence plummeted. The brush of the broom that swept her feathers away took Icarus’ agency with them.

Wing clipping sessions were, by far, the most miserable part of her time at Sanctuary. Pain she could stand… but humiliation? It cut her to the core.

Dr. Gorin always personally performed her clippings; she knew Icarus’s anatomy better than anyone, having been the one who bioengineered her. There was not a feather, vein, or bone in the avian-humanoid’s body that Dr. Gorin did not have part in putting there. Orderlies or doctors commonly oversaw her medical treatment, but wing clippings were personal.

When Icarus was led through two lefts, a long straightaway, and then two rights, she knew what was in store for her. That path meant she was being taken to the room where her wings would be clipped. She struggled with the guards who pushed her into the room; she couldn’t see a thing with the blindfold on, but she would do anything to get away from a clipping… even if that meant an escape attempt.

She broke free for perhaps two seconds, and made it a few steps back the way she came before an electric baton was shoved between her shoulder blades and activated. Icarus could not help it; she screamed as the fifty thousand volts of electricity suddenly coursed through her. Her body jerked and she blacked out for a moment. When she came to, she was being dragged from the floor onto a table. Her blindfold had either been taken off or it had slipped off in her fall to the floor.

Dr. Gorin came into view, looking disappointed. “You always fight this. One day you’ll learn it’s what’s best for you.”

Icarus spat at her; she must have landed it because suddenly a burning hot palm smacked across her cheek. Shocked, the experiment reeled back.

Dr. Gorin had struck her.

Icarus was dazed. Dr. Gorin rarely laid a hand on her; she let the guards and the shock collars dish out the brunt of her punishments. Distracted, she let herself be strapped face-down to the table without struggling.

A guard secured her arms above her head. An orderly nestled her head into a foam block before straps were tightened around her neck and head, holding them in place. Her wings were spread and secured before her legs were strapped together, first at the ankle and then at the thigh. To finish it off, her body was bound in three places to the table. 

Thus trapped, the experiment listened as Dr. Gorin ordered the room cleared of unessential personnel. After several moments, the only people left were two guards standing by the door, Dr. Gorin, and of course, Icarus. 

“Music, Icarus?” Gorin asked as she pulled on medical gloves from a station in Icarus’s periphery.

Icarus pressed her lips together and did not respond, out of spite for what was about to occur.

Dr. Gorin turned on the radio regardless of her experiment’s finer feelings. Soft music filled the room and Icarus watched Dr. Gorin’s pointy toed dress shoes stride past. Dr. Gorin always wore fashionable, but simple, shoes. Silver or gold buckles, no heels, and beautifully shined leather.

The sound of her testing the shears cut over the music and tore Icarus back into reality. Her body tensed as the scientist’s steps came towards her. Dr. Gorin stepped behind her and her legs brushed against her primary feathers. Icarus felt her hands run over her wings, testing for abnormalities, growths, or injuries that had not been reported to her by the doctors. Finding nothing, she tested the length and weight of Icarus’s feathers with her fingers. 

Icarus screwed her eyes closed as the sound of the shears began again. She willed the feeling of her wings growing lighter to go away, but knew it would not. She wanted to cry, but would not in front of the scientist and her guards. She would wait until she reached her cell—even though it had a camera to watch her every move, she could turn her back on it and have some relative privacy.

The clipping took little time; Dr. Gorin was handy with the shears and knew which feathers to cut. After she was done she cleaned them up so her prized experiment did not look scraggly. Then she went to clean the shears. While she cleaned her equipment, the guards came over and re-restrained Icarus’s wings, undid her table bindings, and reshackled her hands and feet. When they hauled her upright, instead of blindfolding her and returning her to her cell, they moved her from the table into a chair, where she was restrained yet again.

Icarus knew what was coming next. The requisite haircut. She watched Dr. Gorin oil the clippers while the guards finished securing her to the chair. Dr. Gorin had taken off her jacket at some point and rolled the sleeves to her crisp white shirt past her elbows. Her bolo tie was a simple chunk of circular turquoise. Her glasses perched atop the mess of her curly brown hair. Icarus wondered, not for the first time, what she needed them for.

The avian-humanoid tore her eyes away from the scientist and looked around the room; she caught her reflection in a shiny glass cabinet cover and stared at herself intently. Her hair was tannish brown and scraggly, not quite hanging into her eyes, but close. She tried to memorize the curve of her eyebrow and how the mole below her left eye sat; she rarely had the opportunity to see herself.

Her eyes looked haunted.

“Chin down, please, Icarus.” Icarus did not respond, still bitter about the clipping. Dr. Gorin’s hand twisted in her hair and forced her head forward. Icarus set her jaw. The clippers hummed to life. The experiment could do little but sit and clench her hands into fists as her hair was shaved off.

Occasionally the cord to the clippers would touch her arm or neck and would cause her to jump. Dr. Gorin would always tisk softly and wait for her to settle before she resumed. Once the back of her head was done, the scientist came around and sheared off the top and sides. When she was done, Icarus’ head was mostly bare except for a quarter inch or so of light brown fuzz. Icarus watched as Dr. Gorin went to clean the clippers.

Then, inexplicably, the scientist returned with a smaller handheld trimmer. Icarus sat, bewildered, as Dr. Gorin shaped up the cut around her ears and at the base of her neck. The scientist’s hands were gentle but never faltered as she worked. If Icarus had to guess, Dr. Gorin had experience doing this. Icarus wondered whose hair did Dr. Gorin practice cutting and edging when she was not overseeing the bird human’s every waking moment?

When the little trimmer was shut off, Dr. Gorin took Icarus’ chin in her hand. Her fingers were cool and soft. Icarus swallowed reflexively. The scientist turned her experiment’s head to one side, then the other. She nodded, once, seemingly pleased with herself, before rising and signaling the guards. They came over to Icarus and trussed her up for the walk back to her cell.

Later that night in her cell, Icarus fingered the clean cut edges of her new haircut and wondered what it meant.

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, warnings for graphic depictions of violence in this chapter.

A week or so after Dr. Gorin had clipped her wings, Icarus was taken down a path she had never been before. Her heart raced in her throat as they walked her down a corridor that never seemed to end. Her life at Sanctuary was mostly routine—she went to the fighting ring, the operating theatre, the recreation room, or the Atrium. She had not realized how much she had relied on the safety of that schedule until she was being walked down an unfamiliar corridor blindfolded and without a clue as to where she might be going.

Finally, the guards stopped her. After a moment, a door opened and Icarus was forced into a room. Her blindfold was removed and she immediately looked around; it was a staging room, much like the one she was put in before she was made to fight, only smaller. Dr. Gorin was there, talking with a few male scientists. Despite the unfamiliar room and the scientists, Dr. Gorin’s presence calmed the bird human.

She was Dr. Gorin’s pride and joy, however ornery the experiment was sometimes to the authority figures around her. Dr. Gorin would not allow anything to happen to her… right?

Icarus was seated in a chair in which the requisite dots and shock collar were applied. Her blood was drawn and her reflexes were tested. An orderly gave her a bottle full of something green. When she sipped it, it was thick and tasted both spicy and mentholated. Not used to such strong flavors, she coughed harshly.

Dr. Gorin glanced over at her with something that might have been seen as concern. Another scientist was not so worried—he barked at her to shut up and drink. Icarus’ lip curled, but a look from Dr. Gorin made her swallow her pride and drink the green paste.

After all of the motion dots were applied and her shock collar was in place, separate wireless monitors were synched up with small, square patches that were placed on her pulse points. Then Icarus was led into a staging room, where she was placed in a pod to wait. The guards left and her shackles clicked open at the same time as the blast door did. She removed her restraints and carefully stepped out into the staging room; it was empty. She looked around, ready for something to explode from the walls.

Nothing happened. Then a barn door popped out of the wall and slid open along its tracks.

_“Proceed into the next room.”_

Icarus did as Dr. Gorin’s voice bid her. The room beyond was an actual furnished room. Icarus stared in wonder at the upholstered furniture, fake windows, drapes, blinds, lamps, bookshelves with actual books, and old analog TV. She had never seen anything like this before; she was used to cold concrete, steel, and cinderblock.

Immediately the experiment itched to explore, but knew that at any moment, something would probably explode or someone would attack her. She warily looked around, fascinated, but still on alert. The door behind her slid closed with an ominous thud, and the intercom crackled to life once more.

 _“Your task is to escape the room,”_ said Dr. Gorin’s voice. “ _You may use anything in the room to do so. If you can escape in under two hours you will have an extra recreation this week.”_ Icarus noted Dr. Gorin did not say what would happen if she could _not_ get out in two hours. _“Your time begins now.”_

The intercom turned off and Icarus was left on her own. She went over to the door, inspecting it; it was inset into the wall and must have slid out and over when a button was pushed in the control system. It had no key hole. She figured it was constructed like most of the doors in Sanctuary; bolts from the floor and ceiling held the door in place once closed to prevent them from being picked open by an intrepid or resourceful experiment. She would have no luck there.

Icarus backed away from the wall and looked around. There were three dome cameras in the ceiling, tracking her every movement. She scowled up at them, then walked along the wood floor, carefully listening for hollow spots. Hollow spots, she had learned in a recreation session, meant trap doors. No such areas revealed themselves. She checked the ground for the scuff marks that would indicate a secret panel in the wall that swung open or closed, but none existed.

There was a lighter on the end table and she scooped it up. She fussed with the level, flicking it on and off as she tried to think on all her training. What had they taught her? Picking locks would not work. She had already found no hidden cavities. Both navigation and wild edibles were useless. Making tools might serve her, but she had nothing to use a tool for.

_“One hour remaining, Icarus.”_

An hour had passed already? Several of the guards’ more interesting curse words rose to mind. She had to think of something.

She paced as she tried to think, playing with the lighter as she thought over her options. Flick, catch, flame. There had been nothing on the walls to help her escape. Flick, catch, flame. The door was bolted shut in a way she could not pick, and even with her enhanced capabilities she knew she would never be able to force it open. Flick, catch—the flame sputtered. 

Icarus stopped dead in her tracks. Cool air flitted over her skin, making her newly shorn hair stand up straight as her flesh prickled. She looked up and spotted a vent in the ceiling, completely out of reach. She grabbed the end table she had found the lighter on and set it under the vent. When she climbed on top of it, her wings flared open to improve her stability on the rickety old thing. If she stretched on her toes, she could just barely reach the lip of the vent; it was friction fit and she could not pry it open with her fingers alone.

She would need something to pry it open. A tool. 

That she could do.

She hopped down and considered her options. The wire in the lampshade would be too thin and too malleable for a lever. Springs from the couch would be too thick to fit in the thin space between the vent and the ceiling. The glass in the fake window might work, but it would be difficult to use it without cutting herself. The TV… she stared at the screen, a plan forming.

The experiment beelined for the bookshelf and grabbed the heftiest book she could find. With a three-inch thick encyclopedia in hand, Icarus stood a few feet back from the TV and hurled the book at the screen. It shattered, exposing the interior in jagged clarity. The experiment tore a chunk of drape off and wrapped the fabric around her hand, then reached inside. She fished around for a moment before pulling out a block of metal. At some point the block had probably been some vital part of the TV, but it was now hers to use as a tool to gain relative freedom.

She wrenched the metal casing of the block open, which took far more effort than she might have anticipated. Her nail beds bled as she took her hard-won piece of metal and climbed back onto the stool. Carefully she jimmied it into the gap and moved it back and forth, then up and down, trying to make the gap bigger so she could get her fingers in and pull.

The metal snapped.

Icarus swore.

Swearing was a trick she had picked up from the guards. On rare occasions, when they got extremely frustrated with her, they would swear. The last time one of them had sworn in front of Dr. Gorin, the scientist had yelled at the guard in front of the entire prep room. The word he had used back then seemed appropriate for her situation; she hoped it would send Gorin and the other scientists into a tizzy.

Icarus dropped the shorn piece of metal and regrouped. She went back to the TV, looking for something else that she could use. She found a primitive motherboard which seemed sturdy enough. She tried that in the gap she had made with the metal; it wedged it open, but not enough. When she tried to push it farther, it broke also.

She did not swear this time, but she really, really wanted to.

_“Thirty minutes.”_

Faced with mounting panic at the thought of failure, and what failure might bring, the avian-humanoid decided her only option was the glass. She grabbed the encyclopedia and hurled it at the fake window; the shattering noise the glass made was oddly satisfying. Icarus wrapped her hand in cloth against and found the biggest, and what she hopped was sturdiest, piece of pane left in the window. She jumped on top of the end table and jammed it into the gap. It fit. Grinning, she levered down on it; almost immediately the glass snapped. Her grip on it slipped, and it sliced into her palm on its way down.

Icarus let out a raw scream, more out of frustration than pain. After she collected herself she internally chastised herself; the scientists would mock her endlessly for showing emotion.

Frustrated and bleeding, she hopped down and tore off another chunk of drape. She pressed the cloth to her cut palm, staunching the bleeding before wrapping it tightly with another strip of drape. She wondered how much time she had.

She fussed with the cords of the blinds as she tried to think. She was out of options. Unless she could pull it off, she would be subjected to the whims of the scientists. Usually, failure meant a particularly unpleasant task in the Atrium or, in the worst case, experimentation.

_“Ten minutes.”_

The experiment decided to go for broke. She cut the cords of the blind off with a shard of glass, then threaded it through the vent. She tugged experimentally. Nothing.

Undeterred, she knotted the cord close to the metal of the vent, then went to the couch. She tore it open with her new glass knife and wrenched a spring free from the depths of the stuffing. Using the spring to twist the cord together, she wrapped it until the cord was taut. Then, firmly grasping the spring, she threw her entire weight onto the makeshift handle.

The vent grill flew forcefully out of the duct and struck her in the head, immediately knocking her unconscious.

.

.

.

When she came to, she was secured tightly to a chair in the prep room. All of the motion dots and patches had been pulled off her body, but when she swallowed, she felt the shock collar still in place. By the work station, Dr. Gorin was seated in a chair, reading a book. Save for two guards, they were once again alone.

Icarus took a deep breath and rolled her stiff neck experimentally. Her head throbbed. Dr. Gorin noticed her movement and stood, closing her book.

“I’m disappointed in you, Icarus.”

The experiment in question pressed her lips together.

Dr. Gorin came over to her chair, pulling on blue latex gloves. “You almost had it. If you hadn’t knocked yourself out you might have actually escaped in time.” She leaned in to inspect something on the crown of Icarus’ head; the ends of her emerald bolo tie trailed along the top of her experiment’s collarbone. She poked at whatever she was looking at—Icarus barely restrained a yelp.

When Dr. Gorin pulled her hand away, it was slightly bloody. She might have split open her head when the vent grill had fallen on her. Icarus looked at her own hand—the jagged cut on her palm from the glass had been cleaned and closed with surgical glue. Her pale skin was discolored from the betadine scrub. When Icarus focused on her own head, she could tell that the cut had been stitched together; she could feel the tug of the sutures.

Dr. Gorin pulled away, snapping off her gloves. Icarus looked at her and their eyes met for a brief second. She had never noticed before that the scientist’s eyes were brown. Dr. Gorin binned her gloves in a biohazard can and said, “Perhaps next time you’ll know better than to stand under the thing you are pulling out of the ceiling, hm?”

Icarus did not respond. Dr. Gorin frowned and came over to her. “No sarcastic remark or levity? Have we finally tamed you, Icarus?”

The bird human used her best Sanctuary guard vocabulary. “Fuck off.”

The scientist’s gaze hardened. She motioned for the guards, who came over to prepare Icarus for transit. As she was being trussed up for the transfer, Dr. Gorin outlined her punishment for failing to escape the room. “You will have no recreation this week. You will be served only two meals a day for the foreseeable future, and if you continue to use that language with me you will be cut down to one. Do you understand?”

The experiment gritted her teeth. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, _ma’am_.”

“Good. Back to her cell, please.”

Icarus went the entire way quietly, not even bothering to memorize the route back.

-/-

They tested her on several different rooms until she could escape from them all. The room tests came in between her normal tasks and fights, but they provided a welcome opportunity to use her brain and solve problems. After fourteen days, the scientists reinstated her meals to a regular schedule. After she solved a particularly tricky room in under thirty minutes, she was given her recreation back.

After almost twenty room tests by Icarus’ count, the guards brought her to another unfamiliar room. She was outfitted with a shock collar and dots, her blood was taken and her reflexes tested, and then put in a pod. This pod moved, much to her shock. It took her out of a staging room and into a warehouse of a room. Icarus boggled; the space was almost as big as the Atrium. It was filled with growth and vegetation, things she had never seen outside of recreation lesson books before.

When the pod opened and she stepped out, she was stunned with how tall trees were. They towered far above her; most were as wide around as she was. When no orders were forthcoming, she wandered through the indoor forest, intent on exploring. She easily lost her way among the tall trees and underbrush.

She lost track of time, wandering through the environment, feeling things and discovering textures. Moss was soft. Tree bark was rough or smooth, depending on the tree. Mud was wet and squishy. Leaves were satiny or smooth. The forest proved to her that there were more colors of brown and green than she had ever known existed.

When it became hard to see, and the colors were dulling, she realized it was getting dark. Being inside a climate and light-controlled building most of the day, Icarus had never really experienced a full night time. She realized, as darkness fell and the night chilled, that the scientists were going to leave her to survive the night.

.

.

.

The night ended up stretching into two. Then four. Then ten. Over the ten days Icarus had to live in that forest, she used every single technique survival the Sanctuary tutors had taught her. How to make a shelter. How to drink non-potable water. How to treat scrapes and cuts with natural methods. How to start a fire to keep herself warm. And, while she had not been trained to hunt, she knew plenty of edible plants. She kept herself sustained.

On the eleventh morning, she woke up to discover a wheeled pod waiting for her. She stepped in and it took her back to the prep room. One of the scientists ordered her into a scalding shower the moment she stepped out of the pod. After showering, she was led into the prep room in clean clothes. Dr. Gorin saw her and nodded once in her direction. Icarus knew that for once she had made the scientist proud.

-/-

A straightaway. Two lefts. A right. She was being taken to the ring.

She hadn’t fought for two weeks. The gash on her bicep from her last fight stood out as a puffy line on her arm; in time it would fade, like all the rest, and leave a shiny white scar. For now, it stood out as a stark reminder to end the fight as quickly as possible.

The guards shuffled her into a chair and handed her the orange drink after they applied the shock collar. It was almost a relief to taste its sickly-sweet flavor instead of the barrage of new drinks that she had been getting in her other tests and tasks. Dr. Gorin was talking with some of the other scientists.

Her opponent was brought in; it was the experiment the scientists called Minotaur, a big, beefy woman with the lower half of a bull and wicked horns that curled out of her forehead. Her hair, like Icarus’, was shorn.

The last time Icarus had gone against her she had been gored and had required almost two weeks of recovery. She already knew she would have to be quick and nimble to prevail against her brute strength.

When the ring doors opened, the two of them circled each other warily, waiting for the other to make the first move. Icarus took comfort in the fact that Minotaur did not know she had been clipped; the last time they had fought, she could fly. For all Minotaur knew Icarus could _still_ fly. She hoped to keep that perception alive as long as possible, although her deception would not last for long. Sooner or later Minotaur would realize Icarus was not using her wings and adjust accordingly.

The shock collar around her neck buzzed in warning, like so many angry bees under her skin. The scientists were getting impatient with their inactivity. Icarus, for one fanciful moment, wondered what would happen if they both refused to fight.

She did not get to act on that fantasy, for as she thought it, the bull-human hybrid charged at her, horns down. Icarus scrambled to jump out of her way; Minotaur was strong but had little agility. She barreled past the avian human, giving Icarus time to regroup. The next time the other experiment charged her, Icarus dodged and swept Minotaur’s feet out from under her. Her moment carried her into the concrete wall with a sickening crunch.

Minotaur was back up quickly; her horns had taken the brunt of the collision, but to Icarus’s distaste they were still intact. Her opponent looked mad as she turned towards her and stalked forward.

Icarus swallowed and backed up a bit. The other experiment did not charge; she waited until she was closer and then lashed out with a heavy blow. The avian human barely blocked it and responded with a fist to her windpipe.

They traded a few more blows, then gave each other some space. The Minotaur had misjudged Icarus. Icarus, for her part, was nursing her blocking arm; the entire bone ached from the strength of Minotaur’s punches. Both fighters realized at the same time that this would not be an easy go at it; it was most likely going to be a long, drawn out, and bloody affair.

Icarus thought of her recent bowel reconstruction after her fight with the cat-human hybrid, and resolved not to suffer the same injury twice.

Minotaur closed the distance—she had obviously decided to fight close quarters. It was an accurate assumption, as Icarus was weaker than she and her wings were a disadvantage at close quarters, clipped or not.  Icarus dodged another blow and slid through her legs to come up behind. Before her opponent could turn she jumped up on her back and wrapped her arms around Minotaur’s neck, trying to choke her.

It might have worked had she remembered to pull her wings in tight to her body. But she didn’t.  Minotaur reached back, grabbed her wing, and twisted.

Icarus howled in pain, her vision going black from the agony. Her grip loosened on her opponent and it was enough for Minotaur to throw her against the slanted concrete wall. She slammed into it at speed and fell to the ground, coughing. As she shakily stood, her ribs ached and grated painfully with every breath. Almost certainly she had broken one with the impact.

Minotaur charged. Icarus rolled to avoid her horns and scrambled to get away. Clutching her side, she backed further away as Minotaur recovered after running headlong into the concrete for a second time. Icarus hoped venomously she had gotten a concussion. She curled her injured wing closer against her body and waited for Minotaur to make her move.

It seemed, after several seconds, that what she had hoped might be right. Her opponent swayed slightly as she stood. It seemed she was having trouble focusing. Could this be her lucky break?

Icarus’ shock collar buzzed again, stronger this time. Minotaur charged. Icarus dodged, and as she ran to the opposite wall, away from her opponent, she an idea. It would hurt like hell, and might not work, but she was getting desperate. She ran for the adjacent wall, unfurling her wings at the last possible second. Her wings gave her lift—not enough to fly, but enough to carry her and her momentum up on the slant.

She ran for a second, gathering speed, and then jumped at Minotaur from above. Her wings folded in and she landed squarely on her opponent, both feet planted firmly into her chest. The combination of her mass and her momentum was enough to topple the larger woman. Icarus did not waste time; she shoved her knee into Minotaur’s side and then grabbed her around the neck.

Minotaur’s head whipped to the side; her horn scratched across Icarus’ neck, just missing the jugular.

Something in Icarus snapped. Her fingers instinctively moved up and gouged down into Minotaur’s eyes; the woman below her howled. The shock collar on Icarus’ neck immediately buzzed twice in quick succession. Match over. 

Icarus did not feel it; the adrenaline pumping through her veins fueled her panic to win. As Minotaur writhed beneath her, she clenched her legs firmly into her sides. Her hand bore down tighter on Minotaur’s windpipe.

It was the first time the scientists had ever had to use the shock collar on Icarus to stop a fight. The last thing she remembered before being shocked into unconsciousness was watching Minotaur’s face grown steadily redder as she choked the life out of her.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last reminder that this is a flashback Sanctuary chapter (the last one!!) and therefore all the bad things happen. This one has torture in it. FYI.

Chapter 20

Icarus awoke in a cell that was not hers. It was bigger and had two metal doors, on either short side, instead of just one. If she had felt like stretching her wings from door to door, there would have been plenty of space between her feathers and the doors.

She wondered what she had done to be moved to one of the luxury cells…and then she remembered the fight. Immediately her brain recalled the image of Minotaur’s gouged eyes, blood soaked hair, and brilliantly red face.

Bile rose in her throat and she rolled over, dry heaving.  _What had she done?_

Despite her body’s exuberant response to the result of her own blood lust, nothing resulted from her dry heaving. Icarus thought that just made the experience all the worse. She closed her eyes and fought against the nausea. Once it passed, she sat up carefully. Her left wing twinged as she tried to adjust them against her back. 

She reached back and felt that it had been splinted against her. She inspected herself; bandages wrapped around her torso, affixing her wing to her body. Another set of bandages was positioned in a way on her skin that confirmed she had, in fact, broken at least one rib during the fight. Her hands had also been wrapped in bandages. She tried to flex her fingers and found them so swollen she could barely move them; a side effect of being in a fist fight against six feet of solid muscle.

More inspection found that they had changed her clothes—her Sanctuary issue t-shirt was white and untorn, her shorts and socks freshly laundered. Her velcro shoes had been cleaned of blood. Someone had sponged the worst of the blood off her hands and legs, and the gash on her neck had been glued shut. Dry blood collected in flaky clots under her fingernails. When she touched the back of her head, there was a lump where she had hit her head on the wall when Minotaur had thrown her.

Her body, overall, ached something fierce.

There was a rap on her cell door and the slot for food opened. A tray slid through. On it there was a liter bottle of blue sleep drink, a standard meal loaf, and a small round container of something Icarus had never seen before. She waited, as was her standard. When nothing happened, she gingerly got up and shuffled over to the tray.

The little plastic shot glass of viscous dark fluid smelled awful. She set it aside, not trusting it. She would consume what she knew unless ordered otherwise. She ate her mealy loaf and drank her liter of blue liquid in silence, then left the tray with the untouched dark liquid by the slot.

Meal finished, she crawled back onto the hard steel bed and fell asleep. Despite the blue drink being filled with sleeping drugs, Icarus’s dreams were filled with bloody eye sockets and Minotaur’s screams.

-/-

The next day, the avian-humanoid was taken for another escape challenge. There would be no skill learning healing session for her.

The second the guards brought her into the room, Dr. Gorin made a beeline for her. “You didn’t drink your medicine.”

It was not a question. Icarus peered up at her, still blinking away the bright lights of the prep room. The statement confused her, so she remained quiet.

“I would have thought you would have liked to be without pain for the night, but it seems you are more of a masochist than any of us thought.”

The shot glass clicked back into the experiment’s memory. Her eyes widened. “That was medicine?”

“Silly girl. Of course it was.”

Icarus had never been given pain medicine after a match. The scientists usually expected her to suffer through their injuries without. “Why?”

“You won.”

This was not a perk Icarus had heard of before. No wonder the pets fought so readily. To be given pain medicine after a match won in blood…. She could not imagine what it might be like to spend a night without pain.

Dr. Gorin continued on as if Icarus was not having an earth-shattering revelation about life at Sanctuary. “Your use of terrain yesterday was excellent. I expect good results today.”

.

.

.

Icarus barely figured out the trick in time. Her brain was fuzzy and she was distracted by a combination of lack of sleep and guilt. Her time ended as she slid under the door she had pried open with a makeshift crowbar.

Dr. Gorin frowned with visible disappointment as her experiment was prepped to be moved. Icarus felt the pit of guilt in her stomach deepen as the blindfold descended over her eyes.

-/-

Within a week Icarus was demoted back to her usual cell. Her results in the rooms had plummeted; after her near failure, she actually _did_ fail to critically think her way out of the next two rooms. Part of it was that she was not sleeping; Minotaur haunted her at night, waking her up screaming despite the drugs in the blue sleep drink. It did not help that she did not know Minotaur’s status—the scientists refused to tell her if she had survived or not.

The next time she was in the ring, a week or so after her fight with Minotaur, she fought Tumnus. She had not seen the goat-human hybrid since the obstacle course. How long ago had that been? She did not know exactly. A long time.

The fight lasted five minutes. Icarus’s responses were dulled by sleep loss, her moves curbed by hesitance. Tumnus ended the brawl without bloodshed. He simply kicked her into unconsciousness with a well-placed jump kick to her forehead. Icarus, with her dulled reaction times, had been too slow to avoid it. 

When she came back to consciousness, she did so hazily. She vaguely realized she was still in a prep room and not in her cell. The tiles of the prep room were grey; her cell was white. She heard movement and voices to her right and shifted her gaze to see what was going on.

It quickly became clear that the only people in the room besides her were the scientists. Four of them, three male scientists she vaguely recognized and, of course, Dr. Gorin, were clustered by the viewing window just inside her field of vision.  They were arguing vociferously; Dr. Gorin was incensed.

“--damaged her!” the female scientist was shouting at her male co-workers. “The fight against Minotaur last week was too much.”

“It’s not like she killed her.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Dr. Gorin gesticulated wildly when she was angry. “Icarus was never meant for brute force! She was meant for reconnaissance and rescue. At worst, she was designed for sniping from afar, not hand to hand.”

“She needs to be trained in the fighting!”

“That isn’t the point!” The ends of Dr. Gorin’s bolo tie, capped in silver to accent the black and silver clasp, quivered in her indignation between her breasts. “She has been trained to fight for fifteen years! We were finally getting somewhere with her cognitive reasoning and then you imbeciles decided she should fight Minotaur!”

Dr. Gorin’s male counterparts were stalwart. “She won using cognitive reasoning, didn’t she?”

“I expressly said she was not to go against a Tank experiment again after the last time! She isn’t built for it!”

“She needs to be taught how to face these opponents in case she goes against one in the field!”

“A bird never fights a bull!” Dr. Gorin snapped. “In the field, she would flee before fighting. You’ve ruined years of progress. The results of her instinctual fight or flight response have traumatized her—you have seen her stats for the past week compared to her stats for the past six months. There has been a marked decline in her performance in ways we have never seen before.”

“Your judgement is clouded.”

“You’ve spent too much time with her case.”

Icarus’s body decided at that moment that it needed to cough. And cough she did, in a raspy, chest-rattling way that there was no way to hide. The scientists immediately turned towards her.

“She’s regained consciousness,” Dr. Gorin said crisply, with no hint of irritation in her voice from the argument not five seconds before. “Call the guards and tell them to belay the stretcher. And get one of the doctors, I want her vitals checked before she is moved.”

One of the scientists went for the phone on the wall while the other headed for the door, mumbling something not very nice about his female counterpart under his breath. Dr. Gorin did not hear him, but Icarus did. Despite the absolute hell Dr. Gorin had made of her experimental existence, Icarus wanted to kill him for talking about her like that.

A Sanctuary doctor came in and checked her vitals. Her hands were cool as she checked her pulse; her stethoscope was colder. Pain shot through her temple as the doctor swiped a pen light across her line of vision. After a prolonged exam, it was deemed she had a concussion.

The guards led her back to her old cell. When they slid the blindfold on her in preparation to move her, Dr. Gorin had her glasses on and was scribbling furiously on her clipboard.

-/-

The Sanctuary staff left her to languish in her cell for several days. This was unusual behavior on their part, but not unheard of. With Icarus’s new schedule of being bustled day to day from her cell to the Atrium, from her cell to the ring, and from her cell and to the escape rooms, the experiment almost welcomed the respite. It gave her time to process what she had overheard in the prep room of the fighting ring.

That snippet of conversation had given her more insight into her life than fifteen years of being at Sanctuary. The pieces of her life suddenly began to fall into place. The more she thought about it, the more fit.

She had been designed for a _purpose_ —Dr Gorin had used the words ‘reconnaissance’ and ‘rescue.’ The flying challenges of her youth (where she learned to turn on a dime, drop things from certain heights with the goal of hitting a target, and learned to fly quickly and silently) suddenly all made sense. Her wings were her biggest asset—and also her biggest hindrance. The wing clippings must have been so she would not rely on them too heavily.

_It all made sense._

She almost always lost in battles that were expressly hand to-hand, or where the fighters were bigger and bulkier than her. She lost because she was just not designed for them.

How had Dr. Gorin referred to the big, brawny fighters like Minotaur? Tanks. Minotaur was a Tank. Icarus wondered who else was a Tank. She wondered how they classified people like her. How they classified people like Tumnus or Aslan?

She wondered a lot in those several quiet days. She wondered if the entire point of her ‘training to fight’ was instead more of an exercise in ‘training to survive.’ If she was never designed to fight, as Dr. Gorin had said, maybe the entire purpose of learning to fight other people was so she could hold her own until someone else—the Tanks, maybe—came in to finish the job.

That did not make sense, though. They never trained to work together to take down enemies, or to rescue someone else. Maybe she was overthinking it. She bit her lip.

In the end, did it really matter that she rarely won, or that she won matches quickly and without much blood? That was what she was supposed to do, right? She was designed, primarily trained even, to think and fly first. Fighting was secondary for her—it always had been. She only fought when absolutely necessary. Was she designed for that, too?

Her other training sessions—the obstacle courses, the forest survival test, the escape challenges…they all fit into this role she imagined the scientists had created for her. The role she had been designed for. The role they were grooming her for.

_It all made sense._

It probably should not have, but the sudden revelation of her life’s purpose filled her with much joy. There was, at the end of this Sanctuary life, something for her to do. Icarus knew there was a life outside of Sanctuary—realistically there couldn’t not be—and now it seemed like she might have a part in it. A part outside of concrete walls and an endless roulette wheel of tests, tasks, and fights. Maybe that role outside of Sanctuary meant taking to the skies and never touching back down.

.

.

.

The argument in the prep room filled in critical missing details about her life. It gave her a new sense of hope. But it also gave her some closure.

Minotaur was not dead. Icarus had not killed her. Wounded her, certainly, not but killed her.

Icarus wondered if the pets thought about the people they injured, if they felt guilty about the experiments after they were carted away for repair. Icarus knew _she_ felt guilty. She herself had been grievously wounded in the ring, but had never had a facial wound as severe as what she had inflicted upon Minotaur.

If Icarus had blinded her permanently, what experiments would they perform on her so that she could see again?

It was a rhetorical question to herself. Icarus did not really want to know.

-/-

After four days in her cell, with just herself and her meals for company, Icarus was finally ordered to put her hands through the bars. She did so, wondering where they were going to take her today. More pointless fight training? Or something actually useful to her skill set?

She had a skill set! That was exciting.

Once the requisite shackles and blindfold were in place, she was once again led down the halls. It was another unfamiliar route. With all of her recent escape training, she had gotten used to unfamiliar routes. She figured there were different ones peppered throughout Sanctuary, and each time she cracked a new one, they had to take her to one she had not solved.

A left, a long corridor, and then a right later, they reached their destination. They waited until the door beeped and opened. The guards pushed her through—and immediately she knew something was wrong.

The stench of chemical disinfectants hit her first. It was the smell of the operating theatre, the one they took her to after particularly bad fights. The smell was almost overwhelming; she balked in the doorway. One of the guards shoved his shock baton into the small of her back, as if daring her to stop completely. Not wanting to be electrocuted, Icarus took another halting step forward.

They led her to a chair, where they strapped her in. Someone removed her blindfold—the lights were so bright they blinded her. The big lights above the operating table adjacent to her were on.

Icarus frantically searched the room for Dr. Gorin. She was not there. All the scientists, in their white lab coats, looked unfamiliar. She studied their faces, trying to find something that sparked recognition.

Nothing.

Then another scientist entered the lab. This one she did recognize—he was old and wrinkly, with spotty skin, a hooked nose, and dark greying hair. He looked as if he might expire at any moment. She knew him by appearance only. He oversaw many of the same trials that Dr. Gorin did. He often told her to shut up when she asked questions. He had been one of the ones arguing with her after her fight with Minotaur.

He noticed her watching him and curled his lip in disgust. “Why isn’t she on the table?” he barked at one of the orderlies clustered about one of the stations. They fumbled, and soon Icarus was being hauled up onto the operating table.

She strained to watch the man move about the room as she was restrained. She still did not see Dr. Gorin. Right before they strapped down her head, when the female scientist was still not in sight, she rasped out, “Where’s Dr. Gorin?”

“Indisposed.”

“Shouldn’t she be here—”

“Shut up, or I’ll have you gagged,” he snapped.

Icarus quieted. The scientist walked out of her line of sight, muttering to himself.

“Uppity little shit thinking she can question…doing what should have been done ages ago.”

An orderly cut off her shirt and started placing sticky things on her torso. These were different than the monitors that were usually applied to her before tasks. Those they applied, too, in their usual spots, but these new sticky things were attached to wires that fed into a complicated machine.

Icarus could feel the panic rising in her throat. It became clear that she was about to be experimented on. She reached for the calm she reserved for just these occasions. She would need it to stay coherent; if she could just slip into the hazy place she reserved for post-fight surgeries....

One of the orderlies put in an IV. She felt the prick and then the cold whoosh of something being injected into her veins.

The old male scientist’s voice cut through her meditative attempts. “Are we ready?”

“Yes, sir. Ready to begin Phase 1.”

“Do so. Let’s see how she reacts.”

Icarus soon wished they _had_ gagged her.

.

.

.

S#26435 woke up crying. At some point in the experimentation, when her entire body felt like it was going to explode, when the skin of her torso felt like it was being ripped from her bones, she had blacked out. Her body simply had not been able to take the pain.

Upon reflection, Icarus realized, she blacked out a lot at Sanctuary.

Icarus had made it through five of the scientist’s “phases” before passing out.

Each phase had been more unbearable than the last, and they had all been awful. Most of them had felt like her skin and organs had been forcibly trying to evict themselves for her body. She was not sure what the point had been, if there had been a point, to the experiment. All she knew was her entire body simultaneously ached and felt like it was on fire.

It hurt so much she could not stop the tears from flowing. She just wanted it to _stop._

Finally, after a long amount of time, she was able to compartmentalize the pain. It was still a constant throb throughout her entire being, but she at least managed to take in her situation. She had woken up in a preparatory room and was strapped to a gurney or table of some kind. She was not sure exactly what she was confined to, only that the surface was tilted at an angle so she lay with her head in the air above her legs.

Her shock collar was around her neck. She still seemed to have all her limbs. There was still an IV in her arm; the bag hung on a pole above her. It was full of clear liquid.

Physical inventory and immediate surroundings observations complete, Icarus moved to examining her extenuating surroundings—i.e. the prep room. She might have been in this one before, she might not have. They all looked very much the same; but there was one key difference this time. There was nobody else, save for her, in the room. Not a single scientist, doctor, orderly, or guard was there. She was alone. 

It was both calming and incredibly anxiety inducing. All her life, there had always been someone watching over her. Even in her cell there were cameras. She was not sure if there were cameras in this room, but a quick glance around did not reveal any obvious sources of surveillance. The thought of being completely alone unnerved her, so Icarus closed her eyes and willed unconsciousness to return. She hurt and she was incredibly exhausted. All she wanted to do was sleep.

She was just starting to drift back off when the screaming started. No, not screaming—yelling.

Someone was yelling outside the prep room, and loud enough that she could hear it through the thick walls. Then the door alarm chirped access, and someone slammed the door open. Icarus opened her eyes wide to evaluate the new threat.

It was only Dr. Gorin, but she was angrier than Icarus had ever seen her before. Her mouth was drawn in a thin line and color blossomed in her usually pale cheeks. Her dark hair was wild and unkempt. Her lab coat was rumpled, and she looked thoroughly askew. However, when she saw her experiment was awake, she visibly relaxed.

“Icarus.”

Despite her soft, almost relieved voice, Icarus instinctively shrank away from her. Scientists in lab coats had never boded well for her, especially in recent memory. Dr. Gorin saw her reaction and looked disgusted. She marched to the door and said something sharply to whoever was outside of it, the closed the heavy metal with nothing short of a slam.

Icarus startled, then immediately wished she hadn’t. The pain started all over again and she moaned involuntarily.

Dr. Gorin moved quickly. She went over to one of the stations, pulled on gloves, then rifled through the cabinets. She pulled out several different things and did something with them; the details were hazy. When Icarus came back into focus Dr. Gorin was standing beside her, glasses on, putting something into the line of her IV.

The effects were not instantaneous, but were close enough. As the contents of Dr. Gorin’s syringe pumped into her body, it brought with it the sweet relief Icarus had been craving. With every second the human-avian hybrid could feel the pain lifting limb by limb. She relaxed back into the gurney, unaware she had been tense in the first place.

Dr. Gorin looked pleased by her fast reaction to the pain killer. Then the scientist fussed with something at the back of the gurney; it tilted, and Icarus was on her back looking up at the ceiling. Anxiety immediately seized her.

Dr. Gorin grabbed her arm to ground her. “Icarus, none of that. Nothing more is going to happen to you today. I need to perform an exam to make sure Dr. Hurrt’s idiocy did not do permanent damage.”

Despite the panic that was clouding her brain, the name of the old male scientist sprang out at her. Experiments were never supposed to know the scientists’ names. Icarus only knew Dr. Gorin’s because someone had directed a question at her while they presumed she was unconscious. Names were certainly not to be used in front of the experiments, much less while they were in earshot.

It prompted her to speak. “Dr. Hurrt?”

Dr. Gorin’s lip twitched, and then she composed herself. “I didn’t tell you that.”

“No, ma’am,” Icarus replied shakily. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

That did make Dr. Gorin smile, if only for a moment. “There’s your levity,” she said briskly, fiddling with the table again. She raised the back up so that her patient was in a semi-reclined position. “Good to know he didn’t torture that out of you. It would have been boring without it.”

Icarus’s brow creased. She still did not know what ‘levity’ meant, since she had not learned the word when she had been taught to read, but she assumed that it had something to do with the way she attempted to use humor or good-natured sarcasm in order to get on the scientists’ good sides. It rarely worked; most of them did not appreciate her cheek.

Apparently, though, Dr. Gorin did. That was something.

With the pain medication working its way through Icarus’s body, Dr. Gorin began a physical exam. She paid special attention to the places where the sticky pads had been put on her chest. Her hands prodded across Icarus’s skin, examining her torso and breasts carefully.

Icarus whimpered involuntarily as she hit a sensitive spot, then bit her lip hard to prevent herself from making any more noises of weakness.

Dr. Gorin glanced at her, then at the spot on her breast she had prodded. She frowned. “Interesting.” Then she continued as if it had not occurred.

Through watching Dr. Gorin’s examination Icarus discovered that wherever the sticky pads had been located, blood had been drawn to the surface of her skin around them. It was starting to mottle in deep bruises across her torso. Sore, oozing burns marked her skin where the pads had directly adhered.

Dr. Gorin was thorough; she checked Icarus’ neck, face, arms, stomach, and legs, despite the fact there had been no pads there. Then she undid some of the straps and had Icarus lean forward and extend her wings. She prodded along her back and the length of her wings, then took her time inspecting the thick connective muscles that kept Icarus’s body and wings together.

It seemed she found nothing of importance because she had Icarus refold her wings and lean back. She looked almost apologetic as she redid the torso strap across Icarus’s naked chest. She went away to the station, removing her gloves as she did so. After binning them she went through the cabinets until she found a small round tub, which she carried over to Icarus.

“Can I put this on your lap?”

The experiment could not help but be snide. “Are we asking experiments for permission now? That’s a first. Ask me next if I want to be here.”

Dr. Gorin’s lips spread in a thin line and she did not respond. Instead she uncapped the screw lid to the tub and set it on the experiment’s lap. She procured another set of gloves from the pocket of her lab coat and pulled them on, then began to spread the contents of the tub - a soft, creamy peach-colored salve - on the sticky pad burns.

Her touch was soft and gentle. Dr. Gorin was the only person at Sanctuary, male or female, doctor, scientist, or otherwise, that was ever gentle with her. Icarus figured it had something to do with the fact she was the scientist’s prize experiment; she did not in any way want her to be damaged. Or maybe that was just Dr. Gorin’s nature—a tongue as sharp as a whip with a touch that could melt butter. Icarus would never know.

When Dr. Gorin was finished, she recapped the cream and took it back to the station. Icarus watched as she cleaned up and stripped off her gloves, then went to the door. Two guards walked in and began to prepare Icarus for transit.

Dr. Gorin walked Icarus to her cell. Though the blindfold prevented Icarus from seeing her, the sound of her fashionable leather shoes on the tile of the hallway followed behind them all the way back. Icarus had never been more grateful for the scientist who had created her.

-/-

The Dr. Hurrt incident was never mentioned again. The only way it remained relatable was that for a week after it, Icarus received medicine with her evening meal. She was still expected to perform tasks, but she was not taken to the fighting ring.

Time slipped by. Her burns healed. Her bruises faded. She went through a molt, and new feathers slowly grew in to replace her old clipped ones.  Soon after, she noticed that she was able to fly again. New experiments and tasks took precedence in her life, and both the Dr. Hurrt incident and the fight with Minotaur were relegated to the fog of memories that Icarus only visited in her nightmares.

-/-

Icarus was woken from sleep by the sounds of the bolts on her cell door disengaging. She immediately sat up, alert. Overnight experimental tasks and tests to record reactions from sleep deprivation were not uncommon. It had been a long time since Icarus’s last sleep deprivation test.

She prepared herself to be trussed up and hauled off down the hallway toward some mystery experiment… but the guards never came. Her cell door remained closed.

Icarus frowned. Was this a test? She got up, took off her shoe, and carefully used it to nudge the door. To her complete and utter shock, it actually swung open.

She dropped the shoe and backed up into her cell, fully expecting a horde of guards with shock batons to descend on her at any moment.

No guards presented themselves. No devices. No traps. Nothing.

Now Icarus was convinced this was a test. But what was it testing? Her bravery? Or was it something else?

After a few minutes of worrying, she decided to ignore her instincts and take the plunge. She was curious about the hallways she walked through blindfolded every day. Who would not be? She had always wondered what they looked like. She would count her steps and track her movements in the hallways, and if someone happened upon her, she would run back to her cell the way she came.

She grabbed her discarded shoe and pulled it on, then slipped through the door with some trepidation. No alarms blared. No secret sentry robots shocked her into compliance. There was simply quiet. She looked around.

The halls were white tile on the floor and walls, broken only by grey doors with numbers on them. Icarus turned to look back at her own; her Sanctuary ID number, the one the scientists and doctors used on all her forms, the one that was tattoo’d on her inner thigh, was stenciled neatly onto it. Doors down the length had similar numberings. She wondered what experiments were held within—if they were there at all. For all Icarus knew, the cells were empty.

The guards almost always turned her right when they took her out of her cell. Only when she was being taken to the Atrium was she turned left. She decided to go left.

She walked as softly as she could. The hallways were empty. She had no idea what time it was. Did guards even patrol the corridors? She saw no signs of them.

At the end of the hallway she turned left again. She found the end of the cellblock, apparently, for the corridor that stretched on only comprised cinderblocks. This might have been one of the long corridors the guards took her down.

She continued to walk. The building was eerily silent except for the sound of the air handling system. How thick did the walls have to be to muffle that amount of noise?

Icarus walked down two more empty corridors. She rounded the corner into a third—and promptly found Dr. Gorin walking down in the middle of it.

She froze.

Dr. Gorin stopped as well, but seemed unperturbed by her prized experiment’s out-of-cell status. She looked her up and down, then nodded to her. “Good evening, Icarus.”

The experiment in question swallowed. “Good…. good evening, Dr. Gorin.”

The scientist smiled. “So you do know my name.” Icarus balked. “How long have you known it?”

The bird-human hybrid decided that she might as well tell the truth. “After that time my legs were broken. I heard someone ask you a question.”

Dr. Gorin appeared to do some mental math. “Ten years?”

Icarus shrugged. She had no concept of time at Sanctuary.

“Hmm. Interesting. I should know better than to assume that little pitchers do not have big ears.” The metaphor went over Icarus’s head. Dr. Gorin sighed and turned, gesturing down the hallway. “Walk with me, Icarus, if you would?”

Icarus had never been _asked_ to do something before. She fell into step beside Dr. Gorin, her wings shuffling restlessly underneath her shirt. It felt weird to be in these hallways with someone else with no restraints. Dr. Gorin was taller than she imagined—she had never stood side by side with her before. She asked a question before she could stop herself.

“Why am I out?”

The scientist chuckled. Icarus did not understand why. Had she said something funny?

“Out of your cell, I suppose you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I let you out.”

“Why?” Icarus asked, quickly followed by, “You can do that?”

Dr. Gorin smiled. “Always asking questions. And no, I cannot. But Dr. Hurrt has the access codes.” She reached into her pocket and held up a square piece of plastic. There was a picture of Dr. Hurrt, a barcode, Sanctuary’s logo, and some information.

The experiment frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I plan to see him removed from this institution without reference and thrown into the wilds of academia, where the petty behavior he displayed six months ago is rampant.”

“…By letting me out of my cell?”

“Not quite.” They had reached the end of the corridor. It was a dead end. Icarus realized that when she had been walking with Dr. Gorin, she had forgotten to track their progress in the building. She panicked slightly. The scientist beside her seemed unperturbed. Dr. Gorin used Dr. Hurrt’s ID to bypass a door. They exited into a staircase.

“There aren’t any cameras in here, if that is what you are worrying about.”

“What?”

“The architects of this place were too stupid to believe the Sanctuary scientists would ever need a reason to track the comings and goings of an experiment in the hallway should it escape. I believe they thought one _would_ never escape. Idiots.”

Icarus still did not understand. Dr. Gorin walked down the stairs; Icarus trailed along behind her. They descended three flights of stairs and stopped at another door. There was no ID required for access. Dr. Gorin stopped in front of the door and reached into her pocket, from which she pulled out a thick envelope. She handed it to Icarus.

The experiment took it and broke the seal; inside was a star chart, a folded map with a circle and a red dot, and a compass on a string. Dr. Gorin talked while she inspected the contents.

“Use your training to take you to the point labeled on the map. The dot, not the circle. We are at the circle. It should be about one day’s flying time for you, perhaps a little more. When you get there, there is a manila folder hidden in the tree with the heart carved into the base. The information in that folder will take you to safety.”

“Is this…” Icarus fished for a word that might be appropriate. “A mission?”

“No.” Dr. Gorin looked her up and down, frowning, as if judging her attire. “You’ll have to do. Fly until just before it gets light, then bed down for the night. Your wings _cannot_ be seen.”

“I don’t understand. If this isn’t a mission, then what is it?”

“I thought you were smarter than this, Icarus. I trained you better.” She let Dr. Hurrt’s ID dangle from her fingertips. “Officially, I’m not here at all.”

Comprehension started to dawn. Icarus stared at her. “Are you _breaking me out_?”

A tiny shrug. “Tomorrow I will swipe into the facility at seven thirty. I will check in with the guards, head to my office, upon which I am sure to be accosted with the news that Dr. Hurrt was found unconscious in a broom closet and that between five and six experiments are no longer in their cells. Some of them, including you, might even have been allowed to escape the facility entirely.”

“There are other experiments that have been let out?”

Dr. Gorin’s smirk was almost feral. “Not yet.”

Icarus boggled at her. She could not believe what she was hearing. Surely this had to be some sort of trick.

Dr. Gorin checked her watch. “You need to go. It’s almost four and I have yet to let the second round out yet. You need to be far away from here when the alarms start to work again.” She put one hand in the small of Icarus’s back and used the other to open the door. She pushed Icarus through, then followed.

They stepped out into a cool desert night. Dr. Gorin put her foot in between the door and the jamb to keep it from closing. Icarus stared at her first view of the world outside the cold cinderblock and concrete walls of Sanctuary.

Stars lit up the sky for as far as the two women could see. The silhouettes of mountains loomed in the far distance like the horizon of a painting. The only sound was the wind. For any normal human, it would have breathtaking.

For Icarus, it was just overwhelming. She took a step backwards. “I can’t.”

Dr. Gorin frowned. This was clearly not going as she intended. “Why not?”

Icarus shook her head. Sanctuary had been the only home she’d ever known.

Dr. Gorin sighed. “Do you really want to be a lab rat your entire life? The chimera program has stalled—we are training the lot of you ad infinitum, and some people are getting sadistic tendencies. Those come, I’ve found, with delusions of grandeur. I made you for better than this.”

Icarus swallowed. “What did you make me for?”

Dr. Gorin sighed and ran a hand across her hair. “Once upon a time I thought by joining Sanctuary I would help people. By creating the perfect chimera, we could end war. Perhaps those were _my_ delusions of grandeur. Instead of peace, all we have created here is human experimentation and sentient creatures suffering miserable pain for the satisfaction of unethical scientists.”

Icarus did not know what unethical meant. “How many of us are there?”

Dr. Gorin shook her head. “It’s best if you not know. If you’re captured, this place will be in enough danger as it is.”

The experiment swallowed. “You call me Icarus. That’s not my real name, is it?”

“No. And before you ask, I don’t know it. I don’t think you have one.”

“…Oh.”

“I’m sorry, I simply designed your biometrics. I was not in charge of the host they put you in.”

“The _host_?”

Dr. Gorin realized she had said enough. She became businesslike. “Fly for the point on the map and follow the instructions from there. They will look for you, so stay low. If you ever see me again, it will undoubtedly be because I am part of a team meant to capture or kill you. Do you understand?”

Icarus nodded. She could follow instructions—it was all she had done for the past fifteen years. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Go. Head for those mountains and stop only when the sun rises or when the lights of this place are out of sight.”

The experiment bit her lip, but nodded. She folded the envelope up and slid it into her underwear, for lack of a better place to put it. The Sanctuary-issue shorts did not have pockets. She stepped away from Dr. Gorin, unfurling her wings out of the slits in her shirt.

She hunched down to get ready to run for takeoff, then stopped. She turned around and looked at Dr. Gorin. Dr. Gorin locked eyes with her for the very briefest of seconds, then gestured her off insistently.

_“Go.”_

Icarus nodded. She took a deep breath, then took off across the desert. When nothing stopped her, she ran faster and faster until the wind caught under her wings and she launched herself into the sky.

Dr. Gorin watched her ascend far above the heights she had ever reached in the Atrium. If she had been a more sentimental woman, she would have stopped and watched Icarus disappear into the blackness. Time and sentiment, however, were luxuries she could not afford. There were experiments to let loose and a character to defile. She waited until Icarus wheeled above her and started for the mountains; then she slipped back into Sanctuary and closed the door to the fire stairs firmly behind her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions as to Gorin's appearance in New York.
> 
> This is my last backlogged chapter, so I'll see you whenever Pri gets the next beta'd set to me. :') Hope the wait isn't *too* painful for you...


	21. Chapter 21

[PRESENT DAY]

_-/-_

_Holtzmann swung the door open, fully expecting a door to door salesman selling windows, but the woman on the other side of the door caused the smile to slide right off her face._

_The woman’s hair was frizzy in the humid November air, her glasses dark and slightly chunky, and the bolo tie around her neck was inlayed with real mother-of-pearl and turquoise. It had been sixteen-odd years since Holtzmann had last seen Doctor Rebecca Gorin; her hair had gotten a little greyer, the glasses perched on her nose were new, and her face had gained several lines, but beyond that, she had barely changed a bit._

_Dr. Gorin smiled wanly at Holtzmann. “Hello, Icarus.”_

-/-

Holtzmann had never quite believed the books she had read after Sanctuary, when they told her that on momentous occasions, the world momentarily stood still. She had thought it was just a metaphor; authors were like that. As Dr. Rebecca Gorin stood before her, though, Holtzmann was very certain the entire axis of her life had ground to a shuddering halt.

She could not respond. She could not react. She was frozen in place at the door, staring at the woman who had been _responsible for it all_. 

Said woman looked her up and down, taking in her outfit and post-Sanctuary appearance. “You bleached your hair,” she noted softly. “It suits you. May I come in?”

Holtzmann regained her senses and slammed the door.

“What the hell?” came Patty’s voice, as the therapist turned and raced down the hallway towards the kitchen.

“Who was that?” Erin asked.

Abby started to rise from the table. “Holtzmann, what’s going on?”

“Gorin.”

“Oh shit.” Abby rushed to join Holtzmann in the kitchen. The blonde was pilfering through Patty’s silverware drawers for a knife.

“What the hell is Gorin?” Patty asked from the other room. She exchanged an alarmed look with Erin, before both women followed Abby and Holtzmann into the kitchen. Erin leaned heavily against the fridge, exhausted from the day as it was already. The sudden excitement and standing and moving quickly was not helping.

“Is somebody chasing you, Holtzy? What’s going on, baby?”

Holtzmann found a knife suitable to her needs and started for the door to the back porch. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Would you at least wait for a moment and let me tell you why I’m here, Icarus?”

The four women turned towards the hallway, where Dr. Gorin stood framed in the doorway.

“Okay, I don’t know who the hell you are,” Patty began, grabbing the nearest available weapon in the form of the carving knife, “but get the hell out of my house.”

Gorin ignored her. “The first step to preventing an intruder is to lock the door when you close it, Icarus.”

“Will you stop calling her that?” Abby snapped.

“Holtzmann,” Erin said, oddly calm against Patty’s anger and Holtzmann’s panic. “Who is this woman? What is going on?”

The blonde glanced between her friends and the scientist, adjusting and readjusting her grip on her pilfered knife. She looked at Abby; Abby was staring at Gorin with murder in her eyes.

“Holtzy…”

Holtzmann looked desperately at her best friend. _“Abby.”_

 _“What?”_ Abby asked, glancing back at the blonde with some exasperation.

Gorin did not miss the exchange. “She knows?”

“Knows what?” Erin asked dangerously.

Holtzmann, for her part, wondered if this was what it felt like to come out to one’s family for the first time. Abby had discovered her wings by accident; Holtz had never really gotten the chance to tell her about them before she found out. On the gay side of things, Holtzmann had always lived that part of her life completely openly, once she figured out what the fuck sexuality was all about. But this? Being trapped on all sides with nowhere to go, her secret bubbling just below the surface… this was just as terrifying as she thought coming out would be.

She looked at Abby again, trying to look for an out. Abby always made everything better; she had pulled Holtz out of more scrapes than she could count. But the doctor shook her head at her.

“Baby, what’s going on?”

Holtzmann looked at Patty, then Erin; one looked concerned, the other anxious and angry. These women were her friends. They were basically the only family she had. Would they really leave her high and dry once they found out?

“Holtz, for fuck’s sake,” Abby snapped, “just tell them.”

The therapist swallowed. Put her knife down. Tugged on her ear. Looked at Patty and Erin.

“So… you know Lucifer, right?”

Holtzmann saw Dr. Gorin hide a smile.

“What the hell does she have to do with anything?”

“Well… uh… you know she has wings, right?” The therapist fiddled with her top button, undoing it. “And you know that she probably had to get those wings from somewhere, right?”

Patty frowned. “Yes…”

“And… well… Dr. Gorin was that person who… who is the reason for those wings. And just her general existence, actually.” Both Erin and Patty looked at Gorin. Holtzmann took the opportunity to fumble with the rest of her buttons. “And… well… Dr. Gorin’s responsible for me, too.”

Patty and Erin looked back at her. Holtzmann slid off her shirt. Erin inhaled sharply at the sudden exposure of bare skin—and then gasped as the therapist unfurled her wings to their full length.

_“Oh my God.”_

Holtzmann looked at them sheepishly. “I’m… um... I’m Lucifer.”

“Hi Lucifer,” Abby intoned after a long pause, as if at an AA meeting. Her attempt at humor broke the tension.

Patty spoke first. Or, rather, she exploded excitedly. “I fucking _knew_ you sounded familiar when we first met!”

The therapist tugged on her earlobe nervously. “Surprise?”

“Everything makes so much sense now! _Fuck,_ girl, no wonder you’re so damn tired all the time! No wonder Lucifer asked me for tunnel—wait, hold up a hot sec. You just left me there.”

“Sorry.”

Patty put down the carving knife and crossed her arms under her large breasts. “So what am I now? The Commissioner Gordon to your Batman?”

“If you want to be,” Holtz said weakly. “Just don’t become Captain Lance to my Oliver Queen.”

Patty let out a loud peal of laughter at the reference, doubling over for a moment and slapping her leg.

Holtzmann looked over at her girlfriend, who had not said a word since she had exposed her secret. “Erin…?”

“You have wings,” the physicist said faintly.

The blonde chuckled. She couldn’t help it. “Yes... I do. Is that… a problem?”

Erin didn’t respond. Holtzmann was not cheered by that prospect.

“How about you, Patty?” Abby asked sharply. “Got a problem with the wings?”

“Hell nah! My life makes so much sense now. Damn!”

Dr. Gorin cleared her throat pointedly. “Icarus, we need to talk.”

“Her name is Holtzmann,” Abby said firmly. “She’s not your experiment anymore.”

The scientist inclined her head in acknowledgement. “My apologies. Holtzmann, then. May we speak candidly?”

Holtzmann refolded her wings behind her back and reached for her knife again. “So which is it, then? Capture or kill? Are we surrounded? Are they going to storm the house if I don’t come quietly?”

Dr. Gorin sighed; suddenly she looked very old. “Neither. Officially I’m not here at all.”

Where had Holtzmann heard that one before? She did not put down her knife. “Then why _are_ you here?”

“Officially, I’m here about New York City’s terrorist,” the scientist replied. “Unofficially, I’m here to give you a warning. The police are wasting their time on Rowan North.”

Abby scoffed as Patty said, “Now hold up just a second—”

“It’s true, Patty,” Holtz said sharply. “Each terrorist or explosion site around the city has been tagged with Sanctuary information, except the last one, which was tagged twice. And it was tagged a second time after Rowan was captured, so he has to have help.”

“The first one didn’t have a tag,” Abby pointed out.

 “That is where you are wrong.” Dr. Gorin stepped fully into the kitchen and set a smart leather briefcase on the counter. While she snapped open the locks, Holtzmann stared in disbelief. She had completely missed the fact Dr. Gorin had been holding a briefcase. Had she been _that_ clouded by panic?

Dr. Gorin pulled out a manila folder, checked the contents, then handed it to Holtz. The blonde took it and opened it; inside were snapshots of the Sanctuary-related graffiti. All of them Holtzmann had seen before. She paged through them, then found the flyer.

It was wrinkled, obviously an original copy. “WANTED” blared in red bold font over a mugshot of a woman with striking blue eyes, a petite face, and high cheekbones. A phone number and reward money offer was printed along the bottom.

The therapist’s hands began to shake. “Is this…?”

“Your host, yes.”

Abby peered over her shoulder at the picture, as did Patty. Only Erin remained where she was.

“She does look like you,” Abby said softly.

“Is that your mom?” Patty asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

“In birth relation only,” Holtzmann said faintly. “I was raised by Sanctuary.”

“An informant found that image around the corner from the N train derailment,” Dr. Gorin said softly.

Holtz tore her eyes away from the flyer to glare daggers at the older woman. “An informant? Is Sanctuary spying on me?”

 “No, it was unrelated. But he recognized the number at the bottom, which is why he reported it back to us.”

“What’s the number?” Patty asked.

“The number for Sanctuary informants to call into. He was shocked to see it so broadly distributed.”

“Did Rowan do this?”

“You’ve lost your touch. Did I not say the police are wasting their time with Rowan North?”

Holtzmann scowled. “Then who is it? Who is plastering my Sanctuary information all over New York?”

Dr. Gorin reached into her briefcase and pulled out another file. She hefted it as if she was testing the weight of the contents, then looked around at the four women assembled in the kitchen. “How much do you know about Martin Heiss?”

.

.

.

Holtzmann felt, in some ways, like she was back at Sanctuary. All five women had moved to the dining room. The Thanksgiving meal had long been forgotten. Now everyone, including to some extent Erin, was hanging on Dr. Gorin’s every explanation.

Holtzmann was still holding the flyer of her mother, despite relinquishing the control of the Sanctuary graffiti pictures to Abby long ago. Patty had taken the Martin Heiss folder from Gorin and was reading through it with varying expressions of disgust. Erin was simply watching, quiet in a way that disturbed Holtzmann.

The therapist hated it. Once again, Dr. Gorin had turned Holtzmann’s entire life upside down in a single evening.

“What I don’t understand is why he’s doing this,” Patty finally said, coming up for air from Heiss’ file.

“From what we can understand, he became obsessed with Lucifer—meaning, you, my dear—after you shuttled the victims of the apartment fire in Queens three years ago.”

Holtzmann remembered the incident. It had been the first time her wings had made an appearance in public. It was before she had had little more than a jumpsuit and a mask—before she had even sewn the first round of polycarbonate plates into her jumpsuit. She had quite literally been trying out the fit of her first jumpsuit when she had seen the light of the fire outside her apartment building.

 She had spent that night carrying victims from upper level balconies to the ground, and someone had caught her on video carrying a woman down from the roof. It had been uploaded to YouTube as ‘Devil rescues woman from apartment fire’. Holtzmann vaguely understood why; the heat from the flames had charred her wings and by the end of the night she had been covered from head to foot in soot. She had looked very much like a demon.

The video had gone viral. The media rechristened her Lucifer shortly thereafter, and the name had stuck.

“You became a threat to everything he stood for,” Dr. Gorin continued. “He has become a world authority on the unexplained with that ridiculous television show of his, so naturally you threatened his status as a debunker. Your existence is very hard to explain away.”

Abby snorted. “He’s tried.”

“Unconvincingly.” The scientist took a sip from her wine; Patty had offered her some of the alcohol on hand when it became clear that their discussion would be a long and complicated one. Dr. Gorin, unlike Holtzmann, had helped herself. Holtzmann wondered if it was the alcohol that was causing the elder woman to give up all this information willingly, or if she really did still care about her former experiment’s wellbeing.

The scientist was still holding court across the table from Holtzmann. “—and somehow he tracked you back to us. He requested to speak with me personally.”

“Is that why you’re here?” the blonde asked.  “To talk to him about me?”

Dr. Gorin shook her head. “No, this was months back. Perhaps a year ago? He came to Nevada and we had a very short, pointed discussion.”

“About what?”

“Originally he contacted us about making a large private donation, but it became very clear upon talking to him that he was sniffing around for information about you.”

Abby pounced. “Did he get it?”

“Of course not.”

“So is he going after Sanctuary or Holtzmann?”

The scientist sighed. “We don’t know.”

Patty frowned. “So why are you in New York?”

Dr. Gorin’s lip curled in a thinly disguised look of disgust. “We had a leak several months after Martin Heiss talked with me in Reno.”

“An unintentional one?” Holtz asked cheekily.

Dr. Gorin shot her a look, then continued as if she had not made the comment. “When we heard about the terrorist incidents here in New York, and our informant called in the poster, we had a feeling it was connected to Heiss. I had a meeting with him this afternoon.”

“What came out of it?”

“He denied being the source of the leak, but he was very interested in my opinions on Lucifer and on the Rowan North attacks.”

“Which reminds me,” Patty said quickly, before they could get derailed. “How did you know Holtzy was here?”

The scientist only shrugged in response. “I can’t give you all my secrets.”

Holtzmann rankled but let it pass. She knew how to pick her battles, and despite everything, Gorin knowing her location was low on the list. The scientist had busted her out of Sanctuary in the first place, and she had apparently gone to great lengths to keep her location and identity a secret. Gorin would not let Sanctuary, or anybody else, know exactly where she was in New York….or at least, so she hoped.

Silence fell between the five women. Finally, Erin finally spoke. “So what are we going to do?”

Everyone turned to her. The physicist pinked, and looked a little nervous, but pushed on bravely. “Rowan might be the person directly responsible for the attacks, but if Heiss is the mastermind, he’s just as guilty. How do we connect the two so the police can get involved?”

Dr. Gorin sighed. “We’ve already tried. Heiss may be a two-bit fool, but he’s a clever two-bit fool. He has left no evidence to connect him to Mister North.”

“There’s always evidence,” Patty said immediately. “They’ve got to be communicating somehow.”

“There’s no online or phone communication between the two of them.”

“I’m not gonna even ask how you know that.”

“If there’s no traceable communication, they must be meeting face to face,” Holtzmann supplied. “When I met clients in college, they’d always catch me in my dorm or when I was walking to class and ask to meet somewhere to talk about what they wanted and by when. We’d go out, have a chat, and then when I got the goods we’d meet somewhere off campus and do an exchange. So they are probably meeting somewhere.”

Erin and Patty stared at her. Abby had heard Holtzmann’s post-Sanctuary, pre-New York sob story before, but not the two of them. They had no idea what she had done before she had moved to New York.

Abby, meanwhile, was obviously thinking on what Holtzmann had said, but in terms of Rowan instead of Holtzmann’s back story. “So it doesn’t really matter how they were communicating, just that they did. If they are meeting somewhere, Rowan had to get there somehow, and if he took a ride share or the subway—“

“There’d be a trail,” Patty finished her sentence for her, looking like she wanted to smack herself in the forehead for not thinking of the obvious. “Of course.”

“Have they looked into that?” Holtz asked the officer.

Patty shrugged. “Ts’not my jurisdiction or my case, but I’ll do some poking around. Worst comes to worse, we can submit a tip.”

“Yeah…”  Holtzmann was already thinking of the logistics of her end of the game. Martin Heiss was white, male, and rich; it would be hard to pin anything on him, and the police might not deign to try, instead pinning the entire thing on Rowan to escape the effort and public backlash of trying to go after a prominent social figure.

Their Rowan-focused persecution, of course, would not hold up if Heiss kept trying to expose Holtzmann or Sanctuary. But the therapist knew that Heiss would simply get another flunky for the police to focus on instead of doing it himself. She also knew that if the police did not uphold their end of the bargain, or kept chasing Heiss’ flunkies instead of Heiss himself, she would have to take over as Lucifer.

The blonde worried her lip, staring down at the flyer in her hand. This was becoming far more complicated than being the simple vigilante she had planned to be. Saving people from the ledges of burning buildings and stopping petty thefts was one thing; proving the guilt of a terrorist mastermind without exposing herself as a top secret chimera experiment was quite another.

“I think I’ve given the four of you enough to think about,” Dr. Gorin said, standing up and beginning to collect up all the folders and their contents. “I should take my leave.” 

Abby started and stood up as well. “Can we copy your information for our use?” Gorin nodded; a generous offer. “Patty, do you have a scanner?”

“Upstairs, baby. I’ll get it.” Patty vanished from the room, leaving Abby, Erin, and Holtzmann standing awkwardly with Dr. Gorin. Abby looked very much like she wanted to say something, but before she could Patty was back with her laptop and her portable scanner.

Holtzmann stepped out of the room as they began to scan the information. She wandered into the kitchen, looking at the stone-cold leftovers of their Thanksgiving meal on the counter, and the scattered knives from their confrontation with Gorin. Her life had always been complicated, but this was becoming a bit much.

Erin joined her in the kitchen. She put a gentle hand on her shoulder to get her attention. “Holtz?”

The therapist turned. “Yeah?”

“Tonight… after she leaves can we… talk?”

Holtz nodded numbly. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever you want.”

Erin pressed her lips together and made her way to the futon; Holtz watched her go.

Someone else set a hand on the therapist’s shoulder; it was Dr. Gorin. She had her coat on and her briefcase in hand, obviously about to depart. “Might we have a word before I go?”

Holtz paused, then nodded. Together the two of them walked outside onto the front step; Holtzmann made sure the front door did not close behind them, leaving the glass storm door between then and the rest of Patty’s house. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Abby lean on the counter and glare protectively out at them. Holtzmann gave her a weak little smile of reassurance. 

Dr. Gorin carefully balanced her briefcase on the railing of Patty’s porch and did up the buttons on her coat. “Quite a little family you’ve found for yourself.”

Holtzmann crossed her arms over her chest and did not say a word, only stared out into the misty glow of the New York evening.

“The red head—Erin, wasn’t it?” Gorin continued, checking the cuffs of her coat. “You two are together?”

The blonde nodded.

“Good. I’m happy for you.” Dr. Gorin took up her briefcase once again. “So. Holtzmann, is it?”

The therapist nodded.

“Is there a first name that goes along with it?”

Holtzmann hesitated, then decided Dr. Gorin could find out without her if she really wanted to, so she might as well tell her. “Jillian.”

“Jillian?”

“It means youthful,” she found herself confessing. Then, “It’s better than the name the cartel gave me.”

“Is that so?” Dr. Gorin raised an eyebrow. “I will have to inquire with Hector, then, about the full extent of your cover.” She paused, as if considering how she would go about this. Then, “And what exactly have you found to occupy your time with besides part time vigilante-ism, Jillian Holtzmann?”

“I’m…I’m a physical therapist.” Her voice as she told her was small. Holtz hated it; hated how she seemed to need Dr. Gorin’s approval, even after all these years.

“Hmm. Jillian Holtzmann, physical therapist. I feel like there should be a title in there somewhere.”

“I’ll whip up some fake credentials, then,” the blonde drawled. “Can I become Dr. Holtzmann overnight, or do you think that would blow my cover?”

The scientist rolled her eyes. “Still cheeky, I see.”

Holtzmann shrugged.

Dr. Gorin sighed and reached into her pocket, pulling out a card. She passed it to Holtzmann, who took it with a look of slight confusion. “If you need anything…”

Holzmann looked at it; it was a personal business card, with the scientist’s full name, a post office box address in Indian Springs, and a cell number with a Nevada area code. She pocketed the card. “Thanks.”

The older woman nodded. “You’re welcome. Also, before I go, one more thing?”

“…Yes?”

“The next time you send your postcards to my ghost box in Reno informing me of your status…please remember to send it from a jurisdiction outside of the one you live or work in.”

Holtzmann paled. So that was how Dr. Gorin had found her. She must have triangulated possible locations from the postcards and used victim information from the N train derailment to discover the rest. She would have to be more careful. She always had to be more careful.

“Don’t worry,” the scientist assured her, recognizing the fear in her eyes. “I destroy your cards after I read them. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Unless Martin Heiss has his way. Then I’m fucked.”

“So be careful.”

Holtzmann shrugged, then shoved her hands into her pockets and tried to look nonchalant.

Dr. Gorin sighed. “Take care of yourself, Jillian Holtzmann.”

The blonde didn’t respond.

The scientist shook her head fondly and turned up the collar of her coat, then stepped off of Patty’s porch and into the mist. Holtzmann watched until she disappeared, then turned around and headed back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....what do you think? ;) Who is ready to see how they catch a rich white man?


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Me: *realizes I haven't updated this fic in a month* MY BAD. Yikes. Have a chapter!

“What did she give you?” Abby demanded as soon as Holtzmann closed the front door.

“A business card with her direct contact information. For…emergencies.”

“How dare she?” the doctor hissed. “How fucking dare she? She shows up here, on Thanksgiving, forces your hand, and then she pretends to care for your wellbeing!”

“I think she always cared for my well being,” Holtzmann mumbled, poking around in the cold leftovers to avoid the full brunt of Abby’s rage.  “She let me out of Sanctuary in the first place.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending her!” Abby was seething. Holtzmann had never seen her so angry, not even when she had lied to her about visiting Erin. “She’s made a mockery of your life! She treated you like a lab rat since before conception!”

“She warned us about Heiss.”

“Which totally makes up for eighteen years of torture!”

Holtzmann went for the fridge and took out the pie boxes. She served herself a piece of pumpkin and a piece of chocolate, then put a piece of sweet potato pie on a second plate. She handed the second plate and a fork to Abby; the doctor took the makeshift peace offering and fell quiet.

Holtzmann grabbed two more forks and went over to the futon where Erin was sitting quietly. The therapist carefully settled next to her. She leaned over, proffered a fork; Erin shook her head.

The blonde chewed her lip and pulled her legs up onto the futon. Abby, blessing that she was, slid into the dining room to give them some privacy.

“How are you?” Holtzmann asked softly.

“Overwhelmed,” Erin admitted, wringing her hands together a bit in her lap.

“I’m sorry…”

 “It’s just…I’m still processing.”

The therapist nodded enthusiastically. Anything to keep Erin talking.

“It’s just a lot. Knowing that all this time you…you were Lucifer. You saved my life.”

“Uh…yeah…” Holtzmann tugged on her ear nervously. “Are you…mad about that?”

“Kind of.”

“Oh.”

“I understand why you had to do it,” Erin said quietly, not looking at her girlfriend. “But it just makes my anxiety…were you ever going to tell me?”

“Eventually,” Holtzmann replied equally as quietly. “I didn’t…I didn’t want to drop it on you.”

“Too late. Dr. Gorin did that for you.”

Holtzmann grimaced. “Yes, that was not ideal.”

“How were you going to tell me?”

“I…don’t know. I never got that far.”

“How’d you tell Abby?”

“I didn’t. She walked in on me blow drying my wings after a shower.”

The physicist could not help herself—she started to laugh. _“Seriously?”_

Holtzmann nodded.

“How did she respond?”

“She sort of gaped for a minute…then told me I had to lie down on her bed so she could examine my musculature so she could understand how I got off the ground.”

Erin smiled. “Sounds like Abby.”

“She was never mad,” the blonde said softly. “She just wanted to know how I worked…and after that passed she wanted to know how to keep me safe.”

The physicist immediately felt guilty. She looked for something to distract herself and found herself tracing the lines of Holtzmann’s back with her eyes, trying to make out the wings underneath. She could barely see them—Holtz had done a marvelous job of tailoring her clothes to hide any unnatural bumps or shapes. Someone who had no idea to the therapist’s secret would be none the wiser.

With quiet stretching between them, Holtzmann started to eat her pie slices. Erin watched her as if seeing her for the first time. She ate with restraint, as if she were trying to hold herself back from trying to shove the food in her face. As if she was trying to savor the pie because she did not know when she would get another one. She was a bit awkward with her fork. She left the ends of pie crusts uneaten on her plate but scraped up all the escaped bits of whipped scream and pie filling.

“Holtz?”

The therapist looked up from her plate and over at her slowly. It broke Erin’s heart to realize that her girlfriend had become wary of her voice.

“Can we…will you tell me about…Sanctuary and your life afterwards?” Holtzmann paused, then shook her head. “Oh…never mind, it’s not imp—”

“Not tonight.”

“What?”

“Friday.”

“Um—?”

“I’ll tell you at PT on Friday.”

“Oh, okay.” Erin paused. “You don’t have—”

“I want to,” Holtzmann said quickly. “You deserve information. But I need…some time. Okay?”

Erin nodded. “Okay.”

.

.

.

Abby and Holtzmann walked together to the subway together, containers of leftovers in their arms. It was nearing midnight; the mist had lifted a bit, but it had left everything damp.

“You okay?” Abby asked a bit into their walk; Holtzmann was being uncharacteristically quiet.

The blonde nodded. “Yeah. Just…long day.”

Abby snorted. “That is an understatement. How’s Erin doing?”

Holtz shrugged. “As well as can be expected.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation, Patty seems to be taking it all in stride.” The two of them carefully picked their way down the subway steps and swiped through into the station. “She seems interested in taking the bull by the horns. She said she was going to do research on Heiss tomorrow night on her shift.”

The superhero felt an odd rush of relief. Her secret was now stretched across four people—five, if one counted Gorin—but two extra people working on the problem would hopefully mean everything would go two times faster. And Patty was throwing herself in with such enthusiasm, Holtzmann wondered if Patty would do better as a detective than a beat cop. She knew the streets, sure, but she was wicked smart and knew more about the nooks and crannies or New York than even Holtz did.

“Hey, bird brain,” Abby said, startling the trainer out of her thinking. “Train’s here.”

So it was. She really was out of it. They stepped onto the last car of train heading downtown and found seats; they were the only ones on the train car, so they really had their pick of seating. It was a luxury in New York City, curtesy of the late hour and holiday the next day. Holtzmann carefully balanced her leftovers in a tower between her legs, keeping them in place with her feet and calves.

“I’m sorry I pushed you back there,” the doctor said suddenly. The blonde looked over at her, brow furrowed in confusion. “In the kitchen…with Gorin. It was tense, and it seemed obvious what the solution was but—it wasn’t my place to push you.”

“It’s okay,” Holtz said softly. “I needed the push. Otherwise…well, you know me…”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Yeah, they’d have to catch you with a blow dryer on your wings to know the truth.”

The therapist managed to look sheepish. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. None of this would have happened if Dr. Gorin hadn’t shoved her fingers where they didn’t belong. She should have left you alone.”

“She gave us information we didn’t know before. We’d be lost without this Heiss information. Besides, I should know some asshole is trying to expose me to the whole world.”

The doctor did not look convinced. “She could have waited until it was just you and me. Or just you.”

“She’s probably on a time table…besides, do we really potentially want Gorin, and Sanctuary, knowing where I live?”

“How do you know she doesn’t know already?” Abby paused. “You know what, don’t answer that. Your paranoia is sky high as it is.”

“ _Sky high,_ is it?”

The doctor rolled her eyes. “Don’t start. That wasn’t intentional. But let me tell you, if an officer of the law had not been present in that kitchen, I would have killed that bitch myself.”

“Doesn't that violate your oath or whatever?” Holtzmann asked, smiling despite herself. Abby was fiercely loyal. Holtz had forgotten, never having been used to loyalty herself, but Dr. Gorin’s appearance at Patty’s brownstone had obviously struck a nerve in Abby’s worldview. She was still livid, even several hours later.

 

“Hang the oath. She violated hers a long time ago.”

 

“I don’t think she’s an actual medical doctor.” It occurred to Holtzmann as she said it that she had no idea what Dr. Gorin’s credentials were. She knew she was a scientist, but she had also patched Holtzmann up several times, so she really couldn’t be certain if Dr. Gorin’s doctorate was in biochemistry or something more hands on.

Abby was still incensed. “I don’t give a fuck. She shows her face again, I’ll kill her. She has no business in your life.”

Holtzmann sighed, then realized something uncomfortable. “Do you really think she might know where I live? Do you think I should move?”

“Out of your rent controlled apartment?” The doctor’s eyebrows winged up almost into her hairline. “Are you insane? You’d better not. You still owe me five years rent, not to mention your student loans.”

“I’ve never owed you shit! You let me sleep on your couch out of the goodness of your heart.”

“True, but threatening to collect is as good threat as any for when you say something stupid like that.”

The blonde sighed again and leaned on her shoulder. She would think about her apartment, and what Sanctuary might or might not know, later. “I didn’t ask for any of this, Abs,” she said in a voice pathetically close to a whine.

Abby patted her leg sympathetically. “I know, but sometimes you’ve just got to play the cards the Universe deals you.”

“Have wings, become vigilante. Vigilante is dealt white, rich, mass murdering terrorist mastermind…?”

“Get enough information on mass murdering terrorist fuckhead that the police can put him away for life, fade quietly into the background while the media sensationalizes the trial, kick up your heels for a bit and make lemonade to occupy your time. Then spike it and enjoy your boozy drink.”

Holtzmann wrinkled her nose. “You know I don’t drink.”

“Still make lemonade then.”

“After all this is over, I’m taking a vacation. New York City can save itself.”

Abby laughed. Holtz made herself comfortable on the doctor’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She was exhausted. The two women fell into companionable silence.

Holtzmann’s change at 7th Avenue came and went; the therapist remained leaned on Abby’s shoulder.

“Coming back with me?” the older woman asked in amusement as the train pulled out of the station.

“Mmm?” Holtzmann opened her eyes and watched the station go by. “Guess so.”

“That’s okay. You can make me breakfast before my shift.”

“You got it, Abs.”

The two women got off a few stops later at the Broadway-Lafayette Street station and walked the rest of the way to Abby’s East Village apartment. Holtzmann yawned as Abby punched in the code to her building. They finally tumbled their way into Abby’s apartment a little after one thirty in the morning.

“I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll put the stuff away,” Holtz replied immediately. “G’night, Abs.”

“’Night.” Abby disappeared into her bedroom, leaving Holtz to put away the leftovers as quietly as possible. Then, too tired for linens, she simply dropped onto the couch and sprawled out, scrolling a bit on her phone before setting her alarm for the next morning and falling asleep.

.

.

.

“Baby, you look like you need a drink.”

Erin smiled wanly at Patty. Once Abby and Holtz had left, Patty had wordlessly come into the kitchen and packed up the leftovers, letting her sit quietly. Apparently, her processing time was over. Patty was right though; she would give anything for a drink. With her current medication, though, she was not allowed alcohol.

She told Patty so.

“I know, girl. I just said you _look_ like you needed one, not that you should drink one.” Patty dropped down on the futon and spread her long legs outward, sighing loudly. “Lord jesus, that was not the day I thought we was gonna have.”

The physicist sighed.

Patty looked over at her. “You doin’ okay, baby?”

“I dunno. It’s just a lot.”

“I get that.” The cop reached over and gave her a squeeze. “You know I’m here for you, right?”

“You’ve always been here,” Erin said softly, leaning into her shoulder. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Patty got embarrassed. She tried to shrug it off but ultimately just squeezed Erin tighter. “It’s no problem, baby. I gotchu.”

Erin smiled and cuddled closer to her for a second, letting herself give in to Patty’s touch. She rarely let herself enjoy her friend’s touch, however prevalent and openly given it was. The two of them sat, leaning into each other, enjoying their company and listening to the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

Erin only sat up when she realized it was nearly one in the morning. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Patty shrugged. “Little late now. Need to be at work in four hours anyway. I’ll nap after the parade.”

The physicist could not help but yawn in sympathy.

The police officer laughed. “You need my help pullin’ out the couch?”

“Yes please.”

Patty helped her up, then pulled the futon out into its flat form. Erin hobbled (her calf and ribs were paining her after all the excitement) to the chest where they kept her pillows and blankets during the day. Patty noticed and came over with a glass of water and the orange prescription bottle filled with her pain medication.

“Thank you, Patty.”

“Don’t mention it. You need anythin’ else?”

“No, you’ve done more than enough.”

“Alright. G’night, girl.”

“Night, Patty.”

The officer headed for the hallway to head upstairs, then paused in the doorway. “Hey, Erin. Don’t let all this freaky shit go to your head. At the end of the day, you gotta recover. Focus on you.”

Erin from where she was tucking herself in on the couch, smiled and nodded. Patty grinned as well, then turned off the lights and left her to sleep.

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

New York City was jubilant. To the best of the public’s knowledge, and for that matter, the police’s, the New York City train terrorist and subway bomber had been caught. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was a loud, happy, relatively calm affair. There was no panic or paranoia beyond the usual police presence.

Holtzmann knew better; after packing Abby off to the hospital for her shift, she dozed on the couch with the parade on softly in the background, nervous about a Heiss-orchestrated attack. Nothing came, but it was surely only a matter of time before he struck again to draw her out or plaster Sanctuary information all over kingdom come.

Or both. Knowing his past modus operandi, probably both.

Although that had been Rowan. Regardless, Heiss undoubtedly had a new flunky. Holtzmann was not as concerned about the flunky—Rowan had been caught, so the new fall guy or gal probably would be, too. She was certain that Heiss would take precautions to make it so his connection to the new person was just as nonexistent.

She had to worry about connecting Heiss to Rowan. Rowan was the bomber. As long as the new flunky only spray painted and the released information was not too sensitive, she would let it go. She had to focus on bringing Heiss down.

Her phone pinged with a text, drawing her out of her half-slumber. She checked her phone screen; it was Erin.

Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : Hey.   
Holtzy: Hey  
Holtzy: What’s up?  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : Checking in. I realized last night must have been traumatic for you. Are you okay?

The therapist could not help but smile. Erin must be coping better than she thought if she had started to worry about Holtzmann’s wellbeing.

Holtzy: Managing. Bit of a relief, having it all out in the open but still shocked it happened.   
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : Ah.  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : I’m really proud of you for telling us…even if it wasn’t under the best circumstances.  
Holtzy: Thanks…  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : I don’t know what I can do…but if there’s anything, let me know, okay?  
Holtzy: I will, thx  
Holtzy: What are you up to?  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : Watched the parade. Made a light lunch and I’m waiting for Patty to get home.  
Holtzy: Sounds like a pretty bomb.com day so far.  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : How about you? What are you doing?  
Holtzy: Nm. Made Abby breakfast, then slept in  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : You went over to Abby’s?  
Holtzy: Yeah. Too tired to make it home myself p:  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : Ah.   
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : You two are close.  
Holtzy: She’s my best friend  
Holtzy:  …Are you jealous?   
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : No!   
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : ….A bit. Sort of. It’s the anxiety.  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : But I know you guys are just friends.  
Holtzy: I see  
Er Bear (〃・ω・〃) : Patty’s home. I’ll see you tomorrow?  
Holtzy: Yup yup see you tomorrow

Holtzmann sighed and put her phone to the side, rolling over on Abby’s couch and closing her eyes. With the parade over, she might actually get some time to sleep soundly.

-/-

The next day Erin opened the door when Holtzmann arrived for her therapy sessions. She smiled softly. “Hey.”

Holtzmann readjusted her grip on her duffle bag and tugged on her ear, suddenly nervous. “Hey. Uh… you ready for therapy?”

Erin nodded and opened the door. The therapist came in and toed off her boots, then paused, looking around.

“Where’s Patty?”

“She had to go see a cousin before work,” Erin replied, going down the hallway and disappearing around the corner.

Holtzmann followed and set her bag down in the living room. She looked around—the space was just big enough. “Um—Erin?”

Erin, from where she was dragging a chair from the dining room, paused. “Yeah?”

“Erm…” Holtzmann fiddled with the zipper to her jacket. “Do you mind…the wings? If I let them out?”

“What? I—oh. No. I guess not.”

The therapist practically sagged in relief. “Great.” She opened her bag and pulled out a shirt, then gestured at the hall bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, okay. Sure.”

Holtzmann went and changed from her work shirt into a shirt she had cut the sleeves off of and tailored for comfort. Once back in the living room she carefully unfurled her wings from under the shirt and let them settle into their natural resting place on her back.

Erin, despite herself, stared.

Holtzmann felt immediately self-conscious but knew Erin could not help it. She was, at the end of the day, an oddity. Even Abby had stared at first. Holtz bustled by to prepare the PT equipment; Erin reached out for a moment, as if to touch her, then pulled away and looked like she was internally chastising herself.

“You can touch them,” the therapist said quickly. “…If you want. If it helps you… you know…” She trailed off, gesturing helplessly. God, she was bad at this.

Erin looked unsure. “Really?”

She nodded.

The physicist stepped closer and ran her hands over the blonde’s wings. “Oh. Wow. They’re so soft.” Holtzmann smiled encouragingly. Erin ran her fingers along her primary feathers, stroking then gently. “…How _do_ you get off the ground?”

The therapist let out a bark of laughter. “Spoken like a true physicist.”

“I can’t help it! The physics doesn’t make any sense.”

“Unless your bones are hollow and your muscle fibers are bioengineered differently than a normal human’s.”

Erin paused, then stared at her. “….Your bones are hollow?”

Holtzmann nodded.

“How much do you weigh?”

“Last time I checked? A hundred or so.”

Erin looked surprised. “That’s almost average.”

“I did the calculations ages ago,” the therapist babbled, excited to share with someone who might understand for the first time. “If humans had hollow bones then they’d weigh about fifteen percent lighter. Someone of my height should weigh about a hundred and ten to a hundred and fifty. Considering I have a high metabolism I ran it with the lower numbers but still came up about ten pounds short until I factored in—“

“The wings,” Erin finished for her.

Holtzmann nodded. “Feathers are pretty light, but I’ve got extra bones and extra muscles that make the wings go, so that makes up that extra ten or twenty pounds that brings me up to a normal-ish human weight.”

Erin paused and looked at her. “Do you not consider yourself a human?”

The therapist shrugged. “I’m not fully human. But I’m obviously not fully avian. I don’t really know which one I am more of. They didn’t exactly let me look at my file at Sanctuary, and Dr. Gorin never told me, so I can only guess at my genetic makeup. I’m just me, I guess. I try not to think about it too much.”

“Seems like you are pretty accepting of it.”

“I’ve had a long time to come to terms with who I am.”

“You had a lot of time at…” Erin struggled for a second. “Sanctuary?”

“Yeah, but also after. In college, and when I moved to New York.” Holtz shrugged again and noticed her abandoned gym bag. “We have to do your PT.”

Erin swallowed. “Yeah… guess we do. Did you bring a movie?”

The blonde shook her head. “I owe you an explanation, remember?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait until Patty’s here so you don’t have to explain it twice?”

“Dunno. It’s probably good for me to be telling it. To deal with the trauma or whatever. But I don’t know if that’s true, I’m not a psychologist.”

“It can help,” Erin said carefully. “Face to face interaction with others can help, even if you don’t discuss the traumatic event at all. Just being with people helps. But ultimately, it’s up to you, what you’re comfortable with, and whatever helps you with your individual healing process.… or that’s what mine told me.”

Holtzmann paused from where she was pulling PT equipment out of her bag. “When did you start to see a shrink?”

The psychic flustered. “I haven’t—not since the—back in college. Before I moved to New York.” She paused, then said, “Anxiety. And…” She gestured to the ceiling, embarrassed. “Neuro-atypical stuff.”

The therapist nodded. “Got it. Nothing to be ashamed of. Glad you got the help you needed.” Erin smiled, but it was tight. Holtzmann licked her lips nervously. “You wanna get started, then?”

“Okay.”

They started with Erin’s usual stretches. As Holtzmann helped her through the more painful one, she started to talk.

“I don’t know the whole story but… I know I was conceived for the sole purpose of being an experiment. Dr. Gorin oversaw my bioengineering and overall treatment. I don’t know if the bioengineering came before or after conception.”

Erin nodded, then winced as Holtz readjusted her leg into another position.

“I was born to a host. I don’t know what they did with me before I could be sufficiently mobile, but once I could walk and talk enough to be dangerous, they started my training….”

“How old were you?”

“Three….I was three when they started the experiments.”

For the next hour or so Holtzmann ran her through every single part of her life at Sanctuary she could bear to tell. The lessons, the experiments, the surgeries, the tests, the torture…

“It sounds like they were training you to be some sort of super soldier,” Erin said quietly, after they had moved to the futon. At some point she had taken Holtzmann’s hand and was holding it in her lap. 

The therapist shrugged. “All I know is that after eighteen years at Sanctuary… Dr. Gorin just let me go. She helped me escape. Orchestrated this whole break out, then framed it on a scientist who had interfered with my training and treatment. I don’t know what happened to him, or if it worked, but they’ve never found me so…I guess it did.”

“Where’d you go?” Erin asked softly.

“I flew around a bit. Dr. Gorin had me playing instruction tag for a bit until I eventually was sent to a National Park where she had lashed a survival pack to a tree outside of a very distinctly shaped clearing.”

“That’s a lot of work.”

“She didn’t want me compromised, and it worked. I used the survival pack to lie low for a few months, then I flew northeast to Chicago.”

Erin’s brown furrowed. “Chicago? What’s in Chicago?”

Holtzmann laughed. “A shit-ton of anxious college students and a cartel eager to sell them methamphetamines and pot.”

“ _OhmyGod_.” The brunette’s mouth fell open. “You _were_ a drug dealer!”

Holtz nodded. “I don’t know how Dr. Gorin knew these guys, but she did. And they knew I was coming. They were ready when I wandered into Chicago, completely disoriented by the city and the people and panicking about how I was supposed to hide my wings from them. Think every Midwestern Girl Moves To New York movie but a thousand times worse.”

 “Did they know that you had wings?”

“Yeah, but they saw it as opportunity. They used me to move drugs north until I got shot.”

_“You got shot?!”_

“Yup.” Holtzmann pulled up her shirt and showed the four circular pockmarks on her left side. “Some sort of semi-automatic. I never got the details. Didn’t see the border guards, but felt the bullets. Two of them went through and through but the other two stuck. I almost bled to death before they could haul me and the drugs out of the bushes. I was unconscious when they dug the slugs out of me in the back of someone’s pickup truck. I don’t know how that shit didn’t get infected.”

By now Erin was quite visibly pale. The therapist quickly continued. “Because I was nearly discovered, after I recovered they decided to send me to sell drugs undercover at CSU. Go Cougars.”

The physicist frowned. “But you didn’t have any papers or anything. How did you enroll?”

“Really? It was the cartel. They stole someone’s identity and faked the papers.” At the look on Erin’s face, Holtzmann sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry I’m not a paragon of virtue here, Erin. I just did what I could to fit in and survive.”

Erin was obviously struggling to find some moral high ground. She obviously could not find it, so she decided to move on. “I thought you got your kinesiology degree from NYU.”

Holtzmann grinned wolfishly. “I did. After two years at CSU, I stole as much of the cartel’s money as I could and split.”

“Oh my God.”

“They were pretty pissed, but New York is a pretty big city, and I’d gotten pretty good at forging papers by then.” Erin stared at her. Holtzmann got nervous and tugged on her earlobe, squeezing her legs under her as if to make herself as small as possible. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No I’m—I’m just trying to understand. It’s a lot to process….”

The blonde nodded encouragingly.

“…Wait. You got your physical therapy certification two years ago, and you’re thirty four…and you went to college at what?” Erin stopped to do some math. “Nineteen? Twenty? That’s ten years missing. What happened to all that time in between there?”

 “I… uh. Well…” The therapist grimaced. “After the cartel I tried to get my degree. I spent about a year at NYU and then I ran out of money and was sort of… homeless for a while.”

Erin’s silence was deafening. Holtzmann fidgeted with her fingers, suddenly finding them fascinating. “It’s okay though. After a year or two I got the job at the hospital… orderly…”

“Is that when you met Abby?”

Holtzmann nodded. “I met Abby. She figured it out eventually and offered me her couch. I didn’t think it was going to be a permanent sort of deal, but I was so tired of sleeping in Central Park so I… did…”

“When she find out the wings?”

“Uh… about two and a half years after I moved in? I had just gone back to school. And she came back from a shift early and saw them… and the rest is history I suppose.” Holtz shrugged somewhat awkwardly and stared at their hands. Erin ran her thumb over her knuckles. Silence fell. 

“Thank you for telling me,” the physicist said after a time. She squeezed Holtzmann’s hand.

The blonde squeezed back. “You’re welcome.”

Erin leaned over and gently kissed her cheek. Holtz turned her head as she pulled away and leaned forward, catching her lips. Erin’s hands disentangled from hers and cupped her face. Then she pulled away as if startled.

“I’m not the first person you’ve kissed, am I?”

Holtzmann was shocked by the question into laughter. Once it subsided and she had wiped the tears from her eyes, she shook her head. “Nope, sorry. That honor goes to one of the girls at CSU.”

“Oh thank God.” The physicist look physically relieved. “How did that happen?”

The blonde smiled slightly. “She was a repeat customer… she got weed from me pretty much every week. I had a crush on her, once I figured out what a crush and romance and feelings were. And I asked if I could kiss her, because consent is important, and she said yes.”

Erin was smiling, too. “How’d you know you were gay?”

“Actually, not the internet, although the internet was great. Netflix is a blessing, although that didn’t exist when I went to college the first time. Anyway. Um…”

Erin recognized the signs of Holtzmann losing her train of thought and prompted her. “How did you know you were gay?”

“Oh! Right. I took an LGBT studies class to fill an elective. That class was great, I learned a lot.”

“About being gay?”

“Yeah. And about social justice and intersectionality and issues and stuff. Although I never really got the gender coding… stuff because I obviously didn’t grow up with pink is for girls, blue is for boys. Everyone wore white t-shirts and black shorts at Sanctuary.”

Erin wrinkled her nose. “Clothing-wise it sounds better than my childhood. I wore so many dresses.”

“You still do,” Holtzmann commented, grinning wolfishly.

“Skirt suits are not dresses.”

The blonde rolled her eyes and uncurled herself from the ball she had tucked into. Instead of sitting properly she swung her legs into Erin’s lap.

The physicist rested her hand on her shins. “Are you happy?”

“In what way?” Holtz asked carefully.

“With your life as it is now?”

Holtzmann nodded. “Yeah. I think so. Despite the whole Heiss thing, my life’s pretty good right now. I’ve got Abs, Patty, and you... and that’s really great.”

Erin smiled and rubbed her thumb along the fabric of the therapist’s slacks. “We never would have met had it been for Heiss…”

“I’m not thanking him,” Holtz deadpanned, but then smiled as Erin started to laugh. The physicist leaned over and kissed her sweetly, and the therapist let the worries of her world melt away for just a little bit.

 


	24. Chapter 23

“Hey, Holtz?”

Holtzmann turned in from where she had zoned out massaging the tough knot out of Erin’s shoulder. “Hmm?”

It was Monday; New York had returned to some semblance of normalcy, albeit with a certain pre-holiday furor that came with the four weeks before Christmas and other assorted winter holidays. And despite the Gorin Incident, as Abby had taken to calling it, Holtzmann’s life had taken a turn for the better. Instead of being alone (or mostly alone) in worrying about the New York City terrorism incidents, she now had Patty, who had promised she was going to run down some information to help their newly expanded investigation, and Erin, who seemed willing to take some of the emotional load off of her that Holtz had never even shared with Abby.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“…About Sanctuary?”

Holtzmann paused and quelled her brief moment of panic. Of course Erin would have questions. She had had all weekend to think about the Gorin incident and the revelations about Holtzmann’s past that it had brought. It was only fair of the therapist to tell her what she could.

“Sure. I’ll see if I can answer it.”

“If Heiss succeeds,” the physicist started softly. “You know…if he reveals your secret identity. What happens to you?”

“I’ll have to leave.” It was that simple; she could not risk being captured and detained. She had spent enough of her life as a lab rat to know she never, ever wanted to go through anything similar ever again.

“Where would you go?”

She shrugged. “Wherever the winds take me.”

“You really have no idea?”

“I have a spare bug out bag dug at the base of a tree along the Appalachian Trial. But beyond that, no.”

“Oh.” Erin was quiet as Holtzmann finished the massage. When she was done, the physicist sat up and pulled on her shirt as Holtzmann started to pack up. “What about Sanctuary?”

“What?”

“If Heiss puts out your information Sanctuary will be revealed, right? What happens to it?”

Holtzmann shrugged and wound up her resistance band, stuffing it in her bag. “Dunno. Don’t really care. The scientists can handle the mess they made themselves.”

“But what about the experiments?”

Her hand froze on the zipper of her duffle.

Erin kept going. “If Sanctuary is revealed, those scientists are probably going to do everything and anything to get out of there before the feds come, right? They seem like the save ourselves sort of type. So what happens to the experiments they leave behind?”

Holtzmann’s mind immediately provided her with faces of every fellow experiment she had ever encountered while at Sanctuary. It then provided her with the worst torture she could imagine—the stuff that plagued her nightmares. And then it provided her with body bags.

She started to shake.

“I’m sorry, did I go too far?” Erin asked softly.

Holtzmann shook her head stiffly. “Something…talk about something else.”

“Something else?”

“Yes!” the therapist gritted out, in a frustrated and harsh voice that took Erin aback. She had never heard Holtzmann sound so angry, so—feral before.

Erin panicked for a second. “Um. I—something different. Okay…well…” She wracked her brain for something to talk about, then remembered the email she had gotten that morning. “Oh! I, uh, Dean Filmore got in contact with me this morning. He was asking after my recovery and wanted to know where I was in the paperwork—which I didn’t know about, so I had to call someone from main administration, and then I was on the phone all day but…I told you about that earlier.”

“Is that why you were…mumbling about phone calls with stupid men during PT?”

Erin nodded. She noticed that, thankfully, Holtz had stopped shaking. She carefully came over, pried her fingers from her duffle bag. Holtzmann let her, but remained stiff. Erin brushed her thumb over the back of her girlfriend’s hand. She kept talking.

“I didn’t know there was so much paperwork to fill out to return after taking medical leave. And they want a write up for the class I’m teaching next semester, but it’s just 1601 which means I already have a syllabus and all the stuff for it. It’s just over a month until classes starts.”

The therapist blinked. “That’s right. You’re going back.”

“Yeah…” Erin squeezed her hands gently. Holtzmann squeeze back.

“Shit. Right. Damn. Okay.” With all the Heiss and Gorin stuff, Holtzmann had almost forgotten what she was doing PT with Erin _for;_ getting her back to work. The blonde broke contact with Erin  and scrubbed her face with her palms, trying to press the images out from where they had burned themselves behind her retinas.

“Okay. Right. We need to get you ready for walking. And stairs. Soon.”

“I’m already walking okay,” Erin pointed out. “And I can do the stairs to the townhouse.”

“Yeah, but the subway has stairs. And this city is so heavily pedestrian…”

“I can always take a rideshare to work if the walking or subwaying is too much. At least until I get stronger.”

“Standing,” Holtzmann groaned, as if re-remembering all of her training for the very first time. “You’ll be standing for—what? Two hours?”

“At the most 90 minutes.”

The therapist rubbed her face again. “Okay. I’ll rewrite your training regime with these goals in mind. Can you look into gyms around the area? Like we talked about on—” Holtz paused. Their date. Their two weeks ago and counting date. “Hey. Um. You want to go on another date?”

“A date?” Erin asked, puzzled by the sudden jump in topics.

“Yeah.”

“Oh….sure. Where?”

Holtzmann shrugged, her leg bouncing nervously. “I dunno. Somewhere…nice?”

“Nicer than Sushi Sushi in Harlem?”

“No offense, Erin, but Sushi Sushi’s class level was slightly above Japanese train station restaurant. And while I’m got nothing against Japanese train station restaurants, sometimes they aren’t the best.”

Erin frowned. “How do you know what the inside of a Japanese train station restaurant looks like?”

Holtzmann shrugged. “I watch a lot of Netflix.”

 “Okay then…. So do you have any ideas about date locations?”

Another shrug, this one a bit more bashful. “I literally just thought about it a second ago and then my mouth did it’s thing so—no. But this city is full of little gems, none of which I can think of right now so—raincheck until the ole noggin can work properly again?”

Erin could not help but smile. “Okay. Raincheck it is.”

“Great. Now—fuck what were we talking about?”

“…My recovery.”

“Fuck. Right. You’re right.” Another face scrub.

“Are you okay?” Erin asked, slightly concerned at what seemed to be a lightning fast change of discussion topics and Holtzmann’s suddenly stilted memory. “You’re all over the place.”

“I think I’m just tired…”

Erin did not buy it, because ‘tired’ was clearly an excuse for the therapist. ‘Tired’ what Holtzmann had said when she had been getting only three hours of sleep because she was (unknown to Erin at the time) flying reconnaissance flights over the city. However, it had barely been a week since the Gorin Incident; she figured Holtzmann still needed time to process this giant upheaval in her life. She seemed to be taking it well, but it was clear she was also very good at hiding things. Erin would let it slide for now, but would not forget about it.

She clarified for the sake of her sanity. “Okay. So you’ll write the plan and I’ll look up new gyms. You will also think about date locations. On Wednesday and we’ll reconvene with our information.”

The therapist nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“If we end up doing things at a gym…will there still be massages at the end?”

Holtzmann grinned wolfishly at Erin’s hopeful tone. “Perhaps if one asks nicely.”

“I will.”

“Then there will definitely be massages at the end.”

Erin grinned happily. Holtz leaned over and gave her a gentle kiss. Then she pulled back, collecting her back and preparing to stand up.

“I have to get going, okay? Work tomorrow.”

“Mmm.” The physicist tried not to be disappointed. “Okay.” She got up off the floor by herself—something she would have not been able to do before all of her work with Holtz—and walked her to the door.

Holtz pulled on her boots and coat. There had been a cold snap over the weekend. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to Erin’s lips. “See you Wednesday.”

“Mmm, see you then.”

.

.

.

She had had a panic attack.

She had not had one in a while, but she knew immediately her own signs and symptoms. Freezing up, the jumbled thoughts (well, more jumbled than normal), feeling like every single nerves was a live wire and needing a steady stream of background something so she could focus on that instead of the fog filling her brain.

Holtzmann got home late and had work the next morning, but she did not care. She needed to fly. She stripped of her work clothes and changed into her jumpsuit and mask and voice modifier, then took to the sky.

Instead of wheeling around and heading to fly the length of the city, as she did on her normal patrols, Holtz headed eastward. Her powerful wings carried her over Long Island, letting her see the spider web of suburban sprawl stretching out below her for miles. She felt like she was buoyant in New York City’s light pollution.

She relaxed as she flew; the wind in her feathers, the December chill on her skin, the gentle ache of her back muscles, all helped ground her back in reality. She could think again, back on what had happened, and what had triggered her panic attack.

Sanctuary.

She knew, at least vaguely, what would happen to the experiments if Heiss succeeded. No matter the situation, it was not good. If the scientists fled and left them behind, like the Nazis did with their concentration camps when the Russians advanced, the experiments would be left to the tender mercies of the government when they arrived to investigate. Holtzmann could only imagine that meant recapture, more experiments, and perhaps implementation of their ‘skills’ in war.

 That was the best case scenario.

The worst case scenario, Holtzmann believed, was the scientists would kill all of the experiments, then flee. Holtzmann would not be surprised if there was such a failsafe in place should Sanctuary get made. Would their bodies be hidden, buried, or burned to hide the evidence, leaving the authorities to discover an empty shell of a facility?

In either case, experiments would die. If Holtzmann failed to stop Heiss from exposing her and Sanctuary, not only would the victims of Heiss’ bombings be on her conscious, but her fellow experiments as well. She had no love lost for some of them, but in the end, they were all just like her; chimeras born for the sole purpose of experimentation for a super soldier program that would probably never be put into practice. Unlike her, they had not been able to escape. They had not been able to live a relatively normal human life. All they had known was the concrete and torture of Sanctuary. And while Heiss’ exposure might set them free, it might also end them.

While this entire journey had not started out about her, if Heiss had been targeting her from the beginning, it had been. She had thought she was battling for safety of New York, not for her own personal safety. And certainly not for the safety of the experiments of Sanctuary. This fight had now gotten intimately personal at a level that was suitably scary. There was so much riding on her success; she was not certain if she could handle the sudden moral responsibility.

Holtzmann alighted in a patch of darkness—some sort of park or reserve in the middle of all that suburbia—and sat on the ground. She leaned against a tree and, without really knowing why but at the same time knowing _exactly_ why, she cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it has taken me months to update this...


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